Number Thirty-Two
The run of wool against his skin, the weight of kachin-lined armour, the smooth, leathery texture of his gloves; Thirty-Two experiences the lulled sensation of dressing with a distant, emptied stare that carries past the stars. His furs come to fasten last, dragging with obedience, one step at a time.
He holds his scouter, the red reflecting.
"We have our deployment time, Captain," says Thirty-Two's second in command. He sounds faraway despite being directly to Thirty-Two's right. "We should board the ship now if we are to make it."
Thirty-Two nods, and then he attaches the scouter, looking upwards past the shipyard. Lord Hailer watches from the observation deck, Overseer Cace likely mere feet behind.
From whatever pit of Hell Pyrak is submerged within, he must also be watching, laughing.
Irony is appropriately cruel.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Breaking of Bread
The ship is modest, made to hold no more than three units at any given time. Today, she holds two, and Thirty-Two is to oversee both throughout the purging. The terrain surveyor acts as the second in command but, unhelpfully, is not suited to fighting. He keeps the books and occasionally consults with the hologram map, which reflects the 3D scan of planet Earth. Thirty-Two prefers his seconds to be combat prioritized. After all, the strongest warriors need two fists but only one brain. Perhaps Lord Hailer orchestrated the team knowing Thirty-Two's preferences, knowing that Thirty-Two will have to also lead the teams from the thick of the massacre because the second cannot. He wants Thirty-Two to rip the civilians limb from limb. To ruin cities and villages and hamlets. He wants Thirty-Two to drown in his own obedience.
"Estimated arrival in eight hours, forty-eight minutes," informs Thirty-Two's second and co-pilot. He flicks the switch to disable manual steering, turning to face Thirty-Two and the small cohort of men behind. "Do you wish to debrief, Captain?"
And tell them what? These soldiers have purged planets more times than Thirty-Two has fingers. This is his first and with any luck, his last.
"Do not lower window coverings as we continue to gain speed," Thirty-Two advises, relying on his understanding of ship warfare. On this matter, he can at least offer some wisdom. "This is the most vulnerable time in a ship's flight and we must remain vigilant in case of projectile attacks or faulting of the ship. We are currently cruising through no man's land and risk either rebel or Lord Cooler's forces firing upon us,—three Southern ships have been lost in this section of space in the last two weeks alone. Report floating debris or bodies but do nothing to reach them. Do not activate the lifepods without my order to do so."
He leaves them to it and retires to the bunkroom. The ship isn't big enough to host a captain's quarters so he must share with his foully odorous unit, but luckily, they hate him as much as he does them, and for that, he is without company and so retires to his faraway top bunk, drawing the curtain.
The ceiling is only inches from his nose, and he finds himself suffocated but unable to do anything about it but close his eyes and pretend that this isn't happening.
Earth.
Thirty-Two has a planet. Has people. An entire civilization to call his own—and because of that, an entire civilization to terminate. He is of them, of Earth. Half them and…and half monster—half Saiyan. Good god, he's a hybrid. How hadn't he known? Why hadn't he even considered it? The improbability of mix bloods having tails really threw Thirty-Two for a loop. How is he unlucky enough to be one of the genetic lottery "winners"? Tails comes from the recessive gene. Hybrids never have tails!
Then again, there is nothing recessive about Goku, is there?
From what very little Thirty-Two remembers of Goku, he'd been a kind father. A good man with love in his heart. Had he loved Thirty-Two's mother during Thirty-Two's conceiving—or like many others from the Program, had Thirty-Two been a product of rape? Saiyans aren't especially promiscuous but it's been known to happen, especially on assignments where familiarity would lie millions of light years away and evenings would run cold and lonely. Is that Thirty-Two's story? Is it Goku's? Why was Goku even on Earth anyway?
Was Goku even born in time for planet Vegeta's destruction? He doesn't look old enough. Maybe he'd been young—one of the last deployed purging units before the explosion. Had Earth been listed for purging then? Had Goku been employed as Earth's maker? If so, what happened?
So many questions.
And, on the matter, where's Goku's tail? In fact, where is Vegeta's?
Vegeta… Thirty-Two can't help but remember that he has a half-saiyan son, who is just like Thirty-Two. Half saiyan and half earthling. Does he have a tail? Thirty-Two couldn't remember seeing one in the picture. Surely not though, he would have remembered.
Maybe Thirty-Two will have the misfortune in finding out when he arrives there. He could very well see the boy.
Amongst others.
Thirty-Two's eyes flash open at the realization that his mother may be there.
It comes on so fast.
His chest compresses in on itself all at once. He struggles to breathe. The lack of oxygen chokes him into a fall out of bed and down to the hard metal floor, and it's here he suffocates. He sweats and gasps and claws at his chest until the world becomes a pinprick of light. Why is everything so loud? Why does his chest hurt so much? He wants to rip his hair from their roots, to carve his own fingernails down his cheeks, to vomit and scream all at once.
Thirty-Two does none of this. He instead bringing his knees up to his chin and prays that none of the men find him like this.
He thinks of something else—anything else to deviate the pain. He palms the groove of the capsule in his arm, enjoying the curvature of flesh. He breathes. Ragged. Panting until he remembers to forget the horror of his assignment. Earth is just another planet.
It'll be his first purge—so that's why this is so… so difficult. Right?
Thirty-Two whines. The lie isn't even convincing.
It's only when Thirty-Two hears the boisterous mayhem of passerby soldiers from beyond the door that he startles. He stands to attention. Nobody enters the room but it's enough to remind him of where he is—of what he is.
Captain Thirty-Two, a leader of the Southern branch. A vessel of Frost might. An expendable tool.
Hand against the bedframe, Thirty-Two manages his breath.
Okay, this is working.
Anything. He must focus on anything else other than the expedition, just for the moment.
Places, books, people, food…
For some reason, as if from nowhere at all, Glellork's ridiculous ballooned face is at the forefront of Thirty-Two's mind, dimpled at the cheeks with shy joy as he pushes his jelly along the refectory table. Ah, food. Thirty-Two hadn't realized how much he thought about it until he'd experienced what it really, truly could offer. The offered jelly had been a sour berry flavor, sweet with a tart after taste that Thirty-Two hadn't tried before. The closest had been one of the breakfast muffins Bulma had forced upon him one morning, its buttery texture rump with red filling that made Thirty-Two want to eat another one almost instantly. There'd been many culinary discoveries on the voyage.
"White chocolate," Bulma had offered weeks ago, brandishing a rectangle slab clothed in foil. "You've seriously never heard of white chocolate?"
It'd been just before they landed for fuel on planet Lontion that they'd been discussing the possibility of water damage to the ship. Her snacking had been distracting to Thirty-Two, who has never once enjoyed the luxury of eating such treats and working at the same time. She'd been amused, Thirty-Two could tell, and quickly offered some of the cream coloured confection as though it'd been her natural instinct to share.
To share sugar… Thirty-Two would never.
Glellork had said he was just trying to be nice when he gave up his jelly.
Bulma had snapped him the white chocolate free, and then she had left it for him when she went to ready the others for landing. He'd stared at the kindness, unsure on how to proceed. For some reason, Thirty-Two today feels bad for not eating it, and not just because he'd been denying himself the food. What did Bulma do with it after? Did she eat it herself? Did she throw it out? She'd seemed the sort of person not to overthink simple luxuries such as food. She'd been spoilt and opinionated, but in a way that doesn't bother Thirty-Two. Now that she's dead, Thirty-Two doesn't mind admitting that he was fond of her, as though the relationship can no longer hurt him.
The ache of thinking about Bulma is enough punishment to distract himself from the realities of the assignment. He marinates in the pain, recalling her surprise at her own death, remembering how the fire swallowed her and how she'd tried to reach out to him—how she was so nice to him.
And then, he thinks of the jelly again. The sour berry jelly… Glellork.
What does white chocolate taste like? Are there other types of chocolate? Black chocolate? Blue? Pink? What makes something chocolate and what doesn't?
Bulma had made sure he ate each morning aboard her ship. It was nearly always something sweet. She'd known him from before, perhaps knew of his penchant for sugar. Hadn't she said she'd known Goku as a teenager (whatever a teenager is)? They must have history, a longstanding friendship that must have brought her into Thirty-Two's life at one point or another. Were they together on Namek? Was she there during the explosion? Why is she with someone like Vegeta? Thirty-Two remembers him, how cruel he was. Would she really have been with him even back then—back when he'd been even worse than he is now?
The image of her, smiling, white chocolate in hand…
Had she known who Thirty-Two was even then?
Jelly and chocolate and cakes.
Thirty-Two envisions them, feeling his chest slowly unravel.
And then, horrifically, he remembers what he tried to forget. But even worse.
Mother is a good cook.
It comes from nowhere. An intrusive thought, a thought that comes with a faceless, warm memory smelling of baked bread. She's above, distorted by the light of the sun. Even though he can't see her, she's smiling. At all, he can't envision this woman. He can't remember even her eye or hair colour. Can't even hear her.
"You don't know what you're missing," Bulma had said, mouth full of white chocolate, his portioned piece ignored between them.
Thirty-Two doesn't know what he's missing.
He's going to return to Earth and exterminate what he doesn't even know what he's missing.
The fact that Thirty-Two remembered something now, at this point, hours away from Earth, scares him. What will happen when he arrives there? What more will he have to suffer through as he murders his people? So selfish, he understands, but still, he's scared. Thirty-Two doesn't want to remember. To be a person right now—ever,—he wants to remain a number, a vessel, a tool.
A strange sensation finds him. A tight, twisting impression in his throat. Thirty-Two doesn't recognize it for the longest time, wondering if it's a symptom of poisoning or the start of a virus based sickness that always catches his sinuses first. He rests a hand by his throat, more confused than concerned, until, quite suddenly, a choked noise leaves him.
The lone sob is caught by both hands. He smothers it before any others can emerge.
He mustn't cry.
Thirty-Two's chest is no longer full of ache but instead fear. Youth Program members do not cry. Thirty-Two does not cry. He is above feeling. He is a number.
Head down. Eyes front.
Boys were beaten in their beds for even the tiniest tear cutting along their cheek. Recruits would take teeth for such a crime. Thirty-Two himself saw a boy three years younger hospitalized for crying over his brother's death the day prior.
Did Thirty-Two cry much before the Youth Program? He remembers being young, crying somewhat in his early days, but he must have known some happiness before then, right? On Earth, maybe he did more than exist for the purpose of not.
"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 once said to him, the final time they spoke onboard the ship, "You could just come along with us. Join us on Earth after, like Vegeta did. You could start again."
The irony has Thirty-Two laugh through his clogged throat.
Tears never fall and he laughs so much that he's still smiling when a soldier pushes the door open.
"You seem… pleased, Captain," he remarks, uncomfortable. "Did something happen?"
Thirty-Two reattaches his scouter, his smile now a grimace. "Not yet."
By the time he emerges onto the flight deck Thirty-Two persuades himself that no such attack of mind just occurred. He takes his leading seat atop an overseeing podium, and then surveys his men and the journeying space afar the windows. Glittering lights indicate life in the distance. There are a great many of them which aren't to be confused for stars. A collision of ships or perhaps warfare. Just to be safe, Thirty-Two deviates the ship's path a fraction.
"Sir, taking this route would add a further two hours to our arrival time," says the second.
"Be it that or potential destruction of the ship," Thirty-Two mutters.
"But the weather conditions will change on planet Earth. According to the reports, there are a great many typhoons during their autumnal period. Any deviation could risk a compromised landing if—."
Thirty-Two hums, rapping his fingers along the armrest of his chair. Alternatively, should they take the original route, the possibility for battle is moderate to high, and to be caught up in battle would only askew the assignment.
Thirty-Two's fingers still.
Hmm.
"Captain!" calls out the soldier operating the communication board in the deck below. "There is a request for contact."
Thirty-Two steps down and assess how best to respond to the flashing appeal on the screen. The ship is a BattleAxe2344, a Northern frontier ship. A battle ship and one of the better models Thirty-Two read about last year after breaking into the Northern Research Division database. Nami and Thirty-Two had been curious about the BattleAxe series being re-launched and couldn't wait for the press release. Whoever is heading the ship will definitely not be any run of the mill captain.
After deliberation, he pushes the soldier wayside and dons the headset himself, accepting the contact request.
"Connected," Thirty-Two receives.
"Connected."
"SR-099," Thirty-Two greets with the ship model, which is quite the impressive piece of technology in itself. Thirty-Two's prestige is as equally advertised as the captain's from the BattleAxe2344. "Motivations?"
" BattleAxe2344," returns a northerner from the other side. "Visual request."
"Denied."
" Captain communication request."
"Speaking."
"A-Ah." From the other side, Thirty-Two hears rustling. "Captain identity... please."
Thirty-Two was reported as dead so this may be quite the nasty surprise for the North. He purses his lips in thought, dreading throwing himself back into the public light once more. However, before he's able to announce himself, there is more rustling, some crackling and finally...
"Thirty-Two," greets the other side familiarly.
Thirty-Two's face drags into a scowl. "Ytvl."
This had always been a possibility.
"Visual request," repeats Ytvl.
"No."
"Request for a Gam."
"Absolutely not."
"Then how will I know it's really you I'm conversing with? The last time I saw you, Captain Thirty-Two, was with a stiletto blade puncturing your brain. You'll have to forgive my suspicion."
"Be suspicious, then. I haven't the time for your foolishness anyway."
There's a laugh crackling over static. "Ah, yes. It is you! There is no mistaking your dourness. The question is how you survived after I was so sure you had died. Perhaps, through strange means, you found your way back…"
There is a fleeting moment of fear, that Ytvl had realized him immortal, but no, Thirty-Two understands that Ytvl is referencing another system of revival. The dragon balls. Does he think they (Goku and whoever else survived) used them to bring Thirty-Two back?
"Perhaps," Thirty-Two says tersely.
"After all their hard work, you crawl back to Lord Hailer, I see how it is…" The tone is light and gives nothing away but regardless, for some reason, it stings.
Nearby, one of Thirty-Two's soldiers gestures to the BattleAxe2344 now in the nearby distance. They are approaching it as it lays in wait for their crossing of the boundary. Because of this, the soldiers are unsure on how to proceed. Thirty-Two raises a palm, having the ship slowly accelerate to a stop.
"Request for a Gam," Ytvl requests, sterner this time.
What? So he can put another knife through Thirty-Two's head?
"Anything you wish to share with me can be said through recorded transmission."
That's hardly true. Thirty-Two has bare witnessed to Ytvl's dance with the enemy, to his enjoyment with his supposed freedom. How Ytvl smiled and laughed and joked with Goku—and then, unsurprisingly, he betrayed him. Nonsensically, this angers Thirty-Two.
"Anything you say?" questions Ytvl, "is that true, Gohan?"
Thirty-Two freezes. His fingers make indents into the control panel. There is a desire to be cruel that is suddenly all too overpowering.
"Yes, Prince Ytvl III of planet Veecyl, I suppose it is…" Thirty-Two bites, "Tell me, Captain. Is it true that you were heir apparent until you abdicated the right by joining Lord Cooler's forces, and by doing so sparing the lives of your colony of siblings. Eight siblings if I recall correctly, with the youngest being a babe when you ascended into captaincy. Your father was made an example. Mother made pregnant by a leading Northern Frost Empire advisor. The hold your planet—and by extension, Lord Cooler—has over the North-East is admirable. Tell me, my prince, will it be your younger elder sister or the advisor's bastard that will now take the throne?"
Silence.
Thirty-Two made quick work to research what he could about Ytvl for a moment such as this one. As Ytvl fumes, Thirty-Two addresses the map to better reroute themselves. When he adapts the coordinates, his second approaches, still with that ridiculous 3D Earth visualization in hand.
"There is an active asteroid belt that way," says the second, "I'm not confident my piloting skills would—."
Microphone muted, Thirty-Two turns to him. "Then, let's take another route."
"B-But we will lose time if we don't continue this path," says the second, more nervous now with Thirty-Two's entire attention upon him.
"So we must engage. Is the ship ready for warfare?"
"Final offer, Thirty-Two, request for a Gam."
Smirking, Thirty-Two couldn't have found his situation more fortunate. War will so regrettably deviate their journey to Earth. How the battle was fated to involve him. Oh, how they haven't the choice but to engage. They must arrive to Earth for its purging after all. They cannot be late.
"Ready the projectiles," Thirty-Two instructs, knowing very well that his ship would not rival a ship in the BattleAxe fleet.
"We don't need to do this," Ytvl says through Thirty-Two's headset. In the background, Thirty-Two hears soldiers maneuvering themselves in accordance for battle.
"Is the propulsion system active?"
"Yes, Captain."
"Send an incendiary strike."
"Wouldn't anti-armour be a bett—?"
"Do it."
Many battles are wrought light-years apart and sometimes may take minutes, hours in some extreme cases, for attacks to land. But at this range, Thirty-Two doesn't have the luxury of time. The strike isn't meant to be anything more than symbolic, a roof knocking to see how Ytvl will react. Whilst Thirty-Two doesn't think Ytvl war hungry, he does think that Ytvl will have little option but to bring firm force down upon them under the watchful eyes of his lordship.
"I see," Thirty-Two overhears from the headset. There is beeping of an oncoming attack, shrill as Ytvl speaks his piece. "You've once again forced my hand, even when I tried saving you."
Inspired, Thirty-Two revives his microphone. "Let's not pretend self-preservation isn't a motivating factor, Ytvl. You want to save yourself."
There's a scoff. He's amused despite the impending fire. "Don't think I can't see you, Thirty-Two. Out of all of us, you want to be saved the most. You're a boy masquerading as a man."
Thirty-Two rips the headset off.
"Send our thermonuclear missile, whichever one this ship hosts."
There's alarm from the second. Several other soldiers are loud with concern. "Already, Captain? Are you sure? Don't you want—?"
Ytvl is returning fire.
Together, they wage bloody, fiery war. They will make this void engorged with the dead. Thirty-Two doesn't care what scourge he must sacrifice now he has the opportunity of avoidance of duty. It may even be delaying the inevitable but Thirty-Two doesn't care. Measures, countermeasures and long, delaying strategies have always directed him to the victory of battle. But not this takes time. If he sits on this and plots out an elaborate concept to save Earth then he will miss the opportunity to even do so.
In this moment, Thirty-Two has never felt so lacking in confidence, but still, he pushes.
So often these days it's fear that levies power over him.
This time, it's for a planet and a people he didn't know he had.
As Thirty-Two orders his attacks he remembers Pyrak. He recalls him, younger, returning from the purging of his own planet, apparently even worse and more fucked up than he'd been before he'd left. Thirty-Two heard a party had been thrown for him, that they'd celebrated his brutality, that he'd killed and eaten his victims and that he'd raped at least three women in his merriment. How much of that is true is left to the unknown, not that Thirty-Two much cares.
Had Pyrak mourned his connection to something beyond the Frost Empire?
"We've lost power to the second engine," reports his second.
Good.
In the distance, the thermonuclear missile does its work. Space is alive with fury.
"Captain, they're sending a Triple X. What should we do?"
A thermonuclear missile of even grander magnitude. The BattleAxe2344, a warship thrice the size of their purging ship will have a bite even more frightful that its bark.
"Captain!"
Thirty-Two gestures lazily in way of the rear of the ship, of the lifepods. The men then scramble, including the second who foolishly wished them this pathway.
When the missile strikes, Thirty-Two closes his eyes and welcomes the heat.
This time, he revives in a body collection unit.
It's a self-operating vehicle that collects those unfortunate enough not to make it home after the throes of space battle. Bodies are accumulated to be later identified or to be rifled through for goods and wares. Thirty-Two has neither goods nor wares, not even having the dignity of clothing after the missile strike. He only realizes this with the discomfort of bare skin against his own in the pyramid of dead. In the dark, he climbs his way to the top before ripping at the metal's flesh to create his own exit.
He's within a parking garage. Thirty-Two knew that he must be either aboard a ship or on a planet because he cannot revive without oxygen. Looking around, Thirty-Two assesses that he is aboard a ship of large magnitude and of an older design that must predate him. North, South or otherwise, Thirty-Two has yet to decipher.
He jumps from the body collection unit, hoping for an alternative to stealing clothes from the deceased.
When he walks he notices something odd about his balance. He stumbles.
"Fuck," he realizes.
His tail has this time been resuscitated.
The last time he tried to pull it off, he gave himself nerve damage and ensuing paralysis. He had to kill himself again to save himself the embarrassment of being incontinent.
Watching the fuzzy, brown tail twitch behind only fills Thirty-Two with dread. This is not exactly the best time to deal with this…
When the garage door raises open, Thirty-Two dives under one of the neighbouring body collection units. Footsteps lead over to the vehicle Thirty-Two just vacated.
The first soldier stops feet away from Thirty-Two. "What in the…?"
"What happened?" questions the other.
"It looks like… from the inside?"
"Eugh! That's so creepy! I just wanted a rest from the bloody madness upstairs…"
"C'mon, let's have a look."
Notherners.
"Think it sucked up one of them carnobeetles again?"
"Oh, I hope not. I never found where it nested last time, the fucker! The captain'll kill me if I've let another in. The last one ate his pet nitochrilla. Only ever find the collar, didn't we?"
As they walk closer to Thirty-Two's body collection unit and further away from Thirty-Two, Northern Guard emblems atop their armour become noticeable. Easy pickings. They're probably not even combat trained. What's going to be their reaction upon being attacked by a naked half-saiyan?
Thirty-Two's tail twitches again, sending an unhappy jolt to Thirty-Two's spine when it takes the initiative to whack the metal above. Scrap metal showers him from the machinery.
The guards reel.
"What was that?"
"Hello?"
"Oh, I don't like this. I'm about to shit myself. This is so freaky!"
Thirty-Two decides to put them out of their misery. He takes a couple of bolts from the scrap metal, aiming true and hitting both guards with enough force aback of the heads to knock them out clean. He emerges and considers their uniform. One is too plump and the other is too short for clothing theft, he decides, standing over them, a little chilly if he's going to be honest with himself.
He considers killing them but decides against it under the principle that their absence would draw suspicion. They don't seem very bright, either, which always feels like punching down.
Thirty-Two rubs at his head, thinking. They're probably the type to be hit by falling debris when venturing under shitty older vehicles like these anyway…
Frisking them comes up more useful than anticipated. Aside their useless knickknacks there is a gun per man, a knife and a microchip operated fob. Thirty-Two tries the fob on every reader in the room until, finally, a door opens. A supply cupboard. And in it, yes… a boiler suit.
Thirty-Two dresses. It's a decent fit, even down to the undergarments and boots. There's a hat, too.
In the reflection of a murky mirror, Thirty-Two catches himself, slightly put out at the idea that he makes more persuasive custodial staff than a captain. His tail bats at the fabric, displeased. He pockets the knife, deciding to leave the gun should the guards wake up. Why would someone take a gun over a knife? Well, to avoid suspicion, Thirty-Two thinks, then taking the exit.
He is still somewhat challenged in terms of his motor skills, finding his tail his latest adversary as he climbs the plummeted staircase. By the time he masters walking, a door appears at the precipice. Thirty-Two covers his eyes from the brightness. He's arisen into a hall brimming with soldiers. An alarm is sounding, the room is chaos. Head low, cap drawn as much as it can over his face, Thirty-Two chances the hall, brushing shoulders with many a man who would kill him if given the chance.
"Watch it!" barks a charging creature that would have made Pyrak look petite. Thirty-Two nearly goes flying and would have if not for the luxury of yet another door, which he quickly presses through.
He laughs. Oh, really.
No time at all must have passed since his revival.
As he walks through this new room, he appreciates his luck. In the centre of the room, there is replica model of the ship he's currently on which takes up a great portion of the floor. Thirty-Two swallows his smugness. 'BattleAxe2344' is inscribed into the gold mantle atop red papered walls.
He's managed to infiltrate the enemy ship.
Maybe... Possibly... Should Thirty-Two deliver either the ship or Ytvl's head then perchance Lord Hailer will forget all about Earth! Lord Hailer dislikes Lord Cooler far more than he does Thirty-Two so one could hope.
The model of the ship is considered. It takes twenty minutes for Thirty-Two to decide where Ytvl might be cooped up. Knowing the fucker, he will be in the thick of it, which puts him either in the flight deck or in one of the many listed meeting rooms. Sure, the model shows where Thirty-Two needs to go, but it doesn't show how to get there. Back bent, he tries to spot any telltale intricacies that may offer a clue. Should he take main hallways or should he try the back rooms?
"So the cameras do not lie," Ytvl says by way of greeting.
Thirty-Two refuses to jump. Instead, he sinks into a statue with eyes that follow Ytvl's every step transcending deeper into the room. Ytvl is alone, seemingly unarmed and not dressed for combat. Fingering the knife in his pocket, Thirty-Two slowly stands straight, his back coming to be present against a wall.
"Facial recognition was installed into our surveillance system," Ytvl says, running his fingers across the glass casing of the model replica, "every soldier in the North must be registered. We wouldn't want to be infiltrated, would we? All our halls are fitted with cameras, as are our places of recreation and rest. As so happens, you were destined to be found, even with all the chaos of war. No vent slinking this time."
Thirty-Two's eyes quickly cut to the mass of seating in the room. Books lay open. There is a television screen above shelves holding what could be a wealth of board games.
All our halls are fitted with cameras, as are our places of recreation and rest.
It's not safe to talk here, communicates Ytvl.
Ytvl stops, his eyes firm with purpose.
"As our guest, I feel I should be somewhat hospitable. Call it my princely nature, as you earlier pointed out. Shall we go to the flight deck? There is something I wish you to see. About a planet I believe you had set in your sights."
Thirty-Two strides, swinging the blade free with finesse in ambition of pressing it beneath Ytvl's chin. It's a perfect fit.
Yet, he doesn't buckle. Instead, he leans in, whispering. "If you weren't curious, you would have already killed me by now, kiddo."
For that, Thirty-Two punches him. Ytvl captures the next fist, churning him in a full circle onto his knees where he believes to have subdued Thirty-Two. But Thirty-Two throws back his head, capturing Ytvl in the nose, immediately breaking it. The knife returns, catching Ytvl across the cheek, close to the eye, with the return swing carving into his shoulder. Thirty-Two twists it, enjoying Ytvl's hissing through the pain.
Likely because of the chaos, doors throw open. Multiple clicks of astras sound all around him.
Ytvl sighs with relief even when Thirty-Two refuses to drop the knife.
"Don't bother holding me ransom," Ytvl says, "You know that never works."
Thirty-Two clicks his tongue. On principle, hostage warfare doesn't hold up much in the Frost Empire, North or South. Regardless of who is under duress, terrorists are not to be bargained with.
He tosses the blade and awaits his usual arrest. He might just kill himself in the cell as to be thrown back with the other bodies.
"Captain! Are you all right?" asks one of Ytvl's men with what could be considered genuine concern.
Ytvl waves them and their fussing wayward. He stands, dusts himself down and then offers a hand to Thirty-Two.
"Now, to the flight deck, yes?"
"Please make yourself comfortable as I organize myself," Ytvl requests Thirty-Two reasonably.
There is washcloth dyed red and still drinking up blood as it holds firm against his cheek. The other one is bandaged. But this cut is deeper. A little further and Thirty-Two would have been lucky enough to do some real damage.
In thanks to the attack, Thirty-Two is cuffed with sheenks. It's a race against time to break through or pick them before a majority of his energy is zapped, so he tries to snap their chain whenever Ytvl turns his attention elsewhere. They've been left entirely alone in the flight deck, which seems like a terribly calculated move on Ytvl's behalf but a fortunate twist of fate on Thirty-Two's.
This flight deck is of the classic deep red and blue design. With the ships being older in the North, Thirty-Two comes to expect the age to show through both the furnishings and the technology. He's not disappointed. The chair he's been positioned on is ripping at the seams, the stuffing is protruding out at one side and there are some questionable stains that may potentially be blood. In contrast, ships in the South are modern enterprises. With new sheenks mining money there to fund only the best of the best, one can expect as much. Thirty-Two would stick his nose up at working in something as tired as this.
"Would you care for a beverage?" offers Ytvl, "wine, water? Poison, as that is what you are expecting?"
Thirty-Two barely contains rolling his eyes. Behind his back, Thirty-Two feels a link from the sheenks cuffs snap.
"You survived the explosion," Ytvl adds conversationally, taking a seat opposite Thirty-Two. He smirks, admiring Thirty-Two's boiler suit. "And then you took up as a cleaner aboard my ship."
"I was on my way to kill you."
"Oh, I don't doubt that." Ytvl has provided himself and Thirty-Two glasses of what appears to be water. A plate of powdered biscuits are laid out. "When you inevitably break those handcuffs, do help yourself."
The bastard is so cocky. Thirty-Two feeds himself the image of Ytvl panicking after the bombing of the Youth Program, of the fear that gives the dark, cruel side of him a thrill.
"I know you well enough that chains will not keep you confined," Ytvl goes on to say, "That you're as much a rabid creature as Pyrak was. You escape death at every turn, even when you… don't. A survivor born and bred…" He shakes his head. "What a wicked place, the Youth Program… What atrocities it did to all those there, what it still does. I'll suppose I'll never understand your twisted, masochistic loyalty to it, but then again, I've never been brainwashed."
At that, Thirty-Two scoffs.
Ytvl raises a glass of water to his lips. His sip is long and purposeful. "Oh, you must consider me as much. That's right. You hate everything, don't you? The Program, the Frost Empire, other soldiers, me, Pyrak, Vegeta, Piccolo, Goku… I bet you now hate Bulma for having the audacity to die. A nice, soft woman unlike the crude men you see destroying lives on a day-to-day basis."
Thirty-Two looks towards the top corners of the room, where the CCTV should sit.
"Never in the flight deck," Ytvl says, taking a biscuit. Around the bite, he says, "and I've been nice enough to unplug all the microphones."
"I doubt that's for my benefit."
After a time, Ytvl smiles. It's strained.
"Why am I here, Ytvl?"
"You once asked me why I didn't search for freedom after my supposed abandonment of the Frost Empire—."
"Supposed," Thirty-Two interrupts, mocking.
"Why didn't I just ignore the warring and fighting and simply live as a free man? Why didn't I run away? Why didn't I pretend none of this existed?" Ytvl pauses, looking faraway at something Thirty-Two can't see. "There is no freedom," he finally says, "There is the system, something with the ability to both hurt and protect."
At this point, Thirty-Two breaks the cuffs, but there is something disjointing in how Ytvl looks at him which keeps Thirty-Two in his seat.
"You were right. Eight siblings." Ytvl swallows, turning away. "None now."
He sips the water.
"Lord Cooler broke his promise," Thirty-Two soon finds himself saying. Then, suddenly quite heated, he adds; "and you say I'm masochistic?"
"I don't know who did it," Ytvl replies quietly, "The South, maybe. Hailer had less than positive relations with my region. Rebel groups who disliked my family's connections with the Frost Empire may have. Even Cilo could have taken their lives in a bid to keep me motivated. Lord Cooler has incentive, too, of course, but to doubt him would be to doubt the one part of the system who has always stood by me."
Thirty-Two is dubious. "Lord Cooler?"
"The world is not black and white," Ytvl says, "people are not black and white, either. You need to realize this beyond anything else, kid. People are not their actions, not always."
"Then what are they if not the wrongs they've committed?"
"Consider motivation."
"Tch… The motivation behind pillaging I'm sure is filled with compassion, then."
"And how about your actions today, Captain? What was your ambition with your attack on my ship? On a battle you could not win? Or... on your trip to Earth?"
Thirty-Two drains his expression of emotion, hoping horror doesn't manage to break through. What does he know of Earth? How did he know Thirty-Two was journeying there?
"For the dragon balls," Ytvl says with resignation, raising the glass again as though it carried something stronger. "That was my order. To search for those blasted relics again… I'd told Lord Cooler of their place on Earth."
"On Earth?"
"Yes. As you know, there is a set there, too."
Thirty-Two is stunned. How hadn't he known that? Then, he remembers Goku alluding to a set, revealing that he'd tried to wish his son back, that they couldn't. Thirty-Two had thought he'd been referencing the Namekian set burrowed in his arm, but no… instead…
Wait a moment… Why didn't the Earth set work on Thirty-Two?
"You didn't know," Ytvl realizes.
"And you betrayed Goku," Thirty-Two accuses, sounding harsher than intended. A look of surprise crosses Ytvl's face. Quickly, Thirty-Two turns a cheek, embarrassed for some reason.
"So, why were you sent to Earth?" Silence. "For Goku?" Ytvl probes. "Does Hailer know he's from there?"
Really, Thirty-Two wishes he was still in the cuffs just for something to destroy.
Ytvl is smart enough to understand the situation. "For you?" he concludes quietly, derisive. "Of course… Hailer knows of your connection to Earth and to Goku, doesn't he? He's punishing you. Today, your ship hadn't been a battle ship. It'd been a long haul purger."
The weight of the situation is crushing all over again. Thirty-Two recalls his mental break in the communal bunker, recalls nearly losing himself to his own grief.
After a long drawn-out break of silence, Ytvl stands. "The reason I brought you here. Come."
Thirty-Two doesn't have it in himself other than to comply, listlessly following Ytvl to the nose of the flight deck, opposing the computer and a curved window. In the faraway distance, once again, Earth can be seen.
"Watch," he says, imputing the same coordinates Thirty-Two did for planet Earth. It locks on.
Ytvl advances the ship further and then gestures to the distance listed on the computer screen between themselves and Earth. For minutes, the ship moves forward. They accelerate faster. The ship pulses forward but still, one thing rests, planet Earth remains at the exact same distance away.
"Is the distance gauge broken?" asks Thirty-Two even though it can't be. They've passed other planets and stars and even the debris of the SR-099 ship, all which flagged on the gauge.
"However much we advance towards planet Earth, we come no closer to it," Ytvl tells him.
Thirty-Two stares, lost.
"After wishing you back, it is my belief that Goku and the others have used the dragon balls to protect the planet, to stop all those who wish it harm from doing so. There is no purging of planet Earth to be done, for simply, it is impossible to reach.
"Goku is impossible to reach."
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I hath returned. India was an amazing trip. The food was absolutely banging, and I found that books there are a steal. I travel carry-on for my trips as I'm not really a big shopper, but oh damn, I didn't expect to be flying out of Delhi with the DBZ manga box set (which I got for like $40). Anyway, I'm back and more tired and grotty for it, and more so, I'm gutted to have to get back into my healthy regime (goodbye beautiful curries).
It's more time for writing, at least. I'm hoping to get another chapter out before I return to work at the end of August so keep them eyes open!
I don't have much to comment on for this chapter. Well, I really did consider a naked Thirty-Two fight sequence. Kind of felt weird ngl. He's fifteen. I just dressed him as a janitor and was done with it.
Reet, well. Thanks for all the support so far! Catch you on the next one!