Number Thirty-Two

Thirty-Two considers the ruined red spandex in the waste bin, remembering who gave it to him.

The ointment provided from the medical bay isn't doing much aside from making him smell faintly of tangerine. Along with the spandex, the tube is also tossed, and Thirty-Two sits for a long time, staring at both of them, rubbing his eyes, imagining gathered soot there even though his skin is now clean, pink and tender from his recent shower. It stings with the satisfaction of recent warfare.

Saiyans live for the thrill of the fight, after all.

What is left to fight now?

Blue Bridge was a concept built upon the old tale of comeuppance. Its story is a triumphant tale that accompanies clanking tankards and boisterous, bantering social occasions Thirty-Two has heard other soldiers talk about. It's the hope for justice. What goes around comes around; arrogance being the crux of the wicked. And the natural order of the universe restorative by the right of a higher being.

Or something like that.

But now, Blue Bridge has become ashes. Only figuratively, mind, because the facility remains, coerced by the puppeteer to have overtaken the stage. The spirit is, however, dead. Cilo has been poisoned, both figuratively and literally this time, and now with the higher authorities of Cilo dead, Lord Hailer will slowly dismantle its organization when the time is right.

Lord Hailer has won.

Thirty-Two closes his eyes, somber with victory.

"Stay still," snips the tailor, his ludicrously long tape measurer doing laps around Thirty-Two's waist. "Shuffling will not make me go faster."

A needle sticks Thirty-Two, pinching him, and the tailor looks not the sorrier for it. Not even a supernova would encourage this dithering, arthritis ridden worm to work with an adroit touch. Such the creature this man is, he scuttles around Thirty-Two, muttering about his discontent as he practices his craft, his shaking hands devoid of finesse… and collagen. The tape measurer slaps Thirty-Two across the cheek when withdrawn.

"Keep still!"

What fortune it is to develop arthritis. To age. Lord Hailer's personal tailor is plump with privilege and audacity, to live a comfortable life free of fear, tumbling after of his lordship.

"Tch… The best fabrics are wasted on soldiers," grumbles the tailor. "There is no appreciation for albula wool, and you lot always machine wash everything you wear. It's a crime. Turn."

Thirty-Two pivots on the podium, feeling like a rotisserie chicken.

"When we land home at Central, I would like you to retrieve one of your formal jumpsuits. The cashmere. I don't have the time to make that along with the… hmm…" The tailor examines him. "Are we going for cape and or furs? Hmm... Both, I should think. Although, I'll keep the fur lining to a minimum. The understated look shows confidence. Yes… yes, the cameras pick up on these things. If we look like we're overdoing it because of what happened last time then we'll just come across desperate."

Last time.

Thirty-Two recalls the exploding roof, the blinding technique, the fire and blistering orange.

"Turn. And keep that thing still, young man!"

Ah, yes. The reason Thirty-Two cannot use the military standard tailor. His tail twitches with annoyance. It's a menace he's been unable to fully yet control. Unless it's belted around his waist, it lives its best life, unperturbed by Thirty-Two's hatred of it.

Appallingly, Lord Hailer wishes for him to keep it. So, he keeps it.

When the tailor clenches the tail, Thirty-Two understands Lord Hailer's line of thinking. Immediately, Thirty-Two buckles to one knee, pain whiting out his vision. He bites his gums to stop himself hissing.

"Then keep it still!" scolds the tailor, "or I'll sew it in place!"

Only Lord Hailer and now a very small cohort of men know of Thirty-Two's genetic infliction, which wouldn't have been the reality, should Thirty-Two have chanced ripping his tail out back when it'd first sprouted like an unwelcome weed.

Under his breath, the tailor clicks his tongue. "Disgusting thing, you are. I'm sure our lord has his plans; otherwise he wouldn't be wasting my talents on costuming you. Arms wide. Wider, no, lower. Yes, that's right. Mm, yes… be thankful Lord Hailer is extending mercy to you, what with the filth locked away in the cells."

Dread pools in Thirty-Two's stomach but he says nothing. What he is thankful for is the distraction of his scouter flashing to life. A notification.

There has been a schedule change. Again. It's to be expected. After what happened last time, Lord Hailer wants everything to balance on last minute changes with his typical ordered disorder. It is difficult to sabotage the unexpected, after all.

After the tailoring, Thirty-Two had originally been expected for a medical check-up, but that's now been moved back two hours. They're checking for respiratory issues at this point in the year, when the weather chills to an even lower temperature and the pollution from the firearm factories become hazardous. Due to density, cold air doesn't move as quickly and so the poison subdues many a soldier. Thirty-Two hasn't the time for sickness. For a cough on live television—how embarrassing that would be for the Empire.

Instead of the medical check, next, he must report to…

Oh, it's not a usual schedule change. His presence is required, no, demanded.

Quite suddenly, Thirty-Two steps off the podium, pushing aside the tailor when he dares breach too close. The measurer is ripped and tossed aside, Thirty-Two's hand poised with still fury.

With this expectation, Lord Hailer really is twisting the knife.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Light in the Sky

The Icier Cruiser is a labyrinth of contemporary design—but this clean, modern effect doesn't extend to all regions of her magnitude. Through her stomach and down the eternally stretched elevator path, Thirty-Two walks the torturous journey, furs carrying behind, the hanging stench of rotten men dense and putrid, and the hallways festering with unknown disease. Different ship. Same experience.

Almost.

This time, there are no alarms. This time, there are no dead prisoners who dared a brave escape in the chaos. This time, there are no deafening alarms and flashes that are almost too much to take in.

This time… again…

Cell #001.

They put him in Cell #001.

Guards deflate with relief upon seeing him enter. They follow after him as he passes through the reception and then the first two security doors leading to the highly secured section of holding cells.

"He destroyed the cameras," informs the head guard as he punches in code to the control panel adorning the door.

"I imagine so."

"He's also killed three men."

"Just three?" Thirty-Two mumbles, removing his scouter in case it should overheat like last time. He shoves it into the nearest guard's hand. "Is there Grade A sheenks present in his cell?"

"We have it on order. It's just the regular sheenks lining the walls."

Thirty-Two sighs. "That's why he's managed to kill three men… Lower oxygen levels, enough to keep him fatigued but not enough to induce hypoxia."

"Yes, Captain."

"What's his status?"

"Wall bound. Whilst he's starting to just now suffer prolonged sheenks exposure, he's still alert. No known injuries. Tread carefully."

Thirty-Two always does.

"Leave," he orders the others.

At that, the head guard coughs, awkward. "We've been given orders not to let anyone be alone with—."

"That's fine," Thirty-Two interrupts, "but, should you stay it'll be with your ears frayed and eyes seared closed. Are these conditions suitable for you?" The head guard isn't able to maintain his stand, his gaze trickling down the drain. "If Lord Hailer wants me to take an audience with him then I'm sure he trusts me well enough not to do anything too reckless."

"Understood… Captain."

"Remain in the reception area."

"Yes, sir."

From there, Thirty-Two opens the final sheenks constructed door, initiating an immediate discomfort to his energy that's all too distracting. Even if the sheenks is not its highly concentrated counterpart, it is enough to have Thirty-Two consider his pacing. He slowly meanders into the grey cuboid, stepping over an unlucky once-guard. In his blood, Thirty-Two's boots halt to attention, impressively still despite the thumping in his chest.

"You… bastard," Vegeta first whispers. And then he shouts, bursting at the seams of his metal binds. The sheenks groans with dissatisfaction. "You absolute bastard!"

Thirty-Two had expected as much.

"You have my attention now," Thirty-Two says levelly, eyeing the mounted bodies and charred remnants of the cameras. "Say your piece so I can continue with my duties undisturbed."

For a moment, Vegeta looks to be choking on every thought wanting to escape through his mouth. He doesn't know what to be enraged about first. Thirty-Two suggests him to be maddened about his situation foremost— namely because he looks a mess. Whatever ship warfare it took to bring Vegeta in seems to have done a number on him. The head guard had said that Vegeta's sustained no injuries but that's not quite true. His skin is as equally burned as Thirty-Two's was this morning, with pink configuration running at wild angles across filthy flesh.

"You," Vegeta starts with, very quietly and very slowly, tone pinched, "are Kakarot's son."

Thirty-Two holds a breath, saying nothing.

"You… after all this bullshit… you turn out to be the very fucking reason I was dragged out here—and you knew all along, didn't you? You knew everything! Did you laugh? I bet you did, you fucking worm. I bet you laughed and laughed, alone in your room, knowing full well that the circus outside was all because of you! You knew we were looking for you! You looked your own father in the eyes and told him you knew nothing about poor little Gohan, you little, fucking psychopath! You sad, self-pitying brat, the fact you couldn't kill yourself is the biggest tragedy here!"

Ah. So, they have figured it out. That checks out. Vegeta hadn't been all that surprised to see him alive and well, after all.

"Where are the dragon balls?" Vegeta next demands, as though their roles are reversed and it's Thirty-Two back in the sheenks shackles. "How did you steal them? What have you done with them?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You liar."

Thirty-Two keeps his tongue in check.

"Oh… I see… You've not been able to summon the dragon, have you?" Vegeta goads, grinning furiously. "Hailer got you under a tight watch, huh? Did your fieldtrip with a couple of saiyans rattle his lordship?"

Thirty-Two looks back up to where the cameras used to be, to where the microphones would have initially sat. Everything has been blackened with fury.

"That was the first thing I did when they threw me in here," Vegeta boasts, sneering. The destruction must have been before the sheenks' effect took place.

"After you're executed, when they use the Earth dragon balls to bring you back," Thirty-Two drawls with discretion, leaning close, "Just stay down… They will realize the Dragon's power—and they'll want it for themselves. Whether or not Earth is untouchable, they will find a way to harness the dragon balls' power. The Empire will always find a way."

"So, you did try to go to Earth—."

"You will never win. You are far too arrogant and foolish to challenge Lord Hailer."

"And you're a coward," calls out Vegeta. "A hateful, cowardly child who wants to take the easy way out because his little feelings have been hurt."

Vegeta's the one hurting, Thirty-Two recognizes. Why he's so hurt is a little harder to understand. Vegeta'd been scared the last time because of the Boiler, but now, that fear looks to have been replaced with frustration—at Thirty-Two, no less. He's always disliked Thirty-Two, understandably, after becoming a victim of Thirty-Two's Boiler back all those months ago. So, with no investment in Thirty-Two's survival, he shouldn't look this angry. Is there something Thirty-Two is forgetting about—when he was once Gohan—what sort of impact he could have had on this man? What sort of person was Gohan to Vegeta to have him become this bothered? Or is it for Bulma? For the woman who stupidly embraced death when trying to reach Thirty-Two—when trying to make him become Gohan again?

Where even is she? If Vegeta is here then what happened to her? Goku and the others must have wished her back, like Ytvl had said they must have. Are they going to continuously be brought back to life by the Earth dragon balls and endlessly pursue Thirty-Two?

How will Thirty-Two put them down if even death cannot keep them from their meddling?

"What is that?"

Thirty-Two hadn't realized the sensation of whooshing furs, of his tail batting behind. Quickly, he draws the pelts over himself. He hides his shame, so suddenly furious at himself for not better covering the appendage up. From the tailor, he'd only left in his boots, spandex and furs, panicked and rushing, and—and stupid with fear over this meeting. So stupid.

"You have your tail!" Vegeta exclaims, swallowing his surprise no less than five seconds later, once being punched so brutally across the face that blood bursts forth.

"Be quiet!" Thirty-Two bites out, "You fool."

"Hailer must know," Vegeta says around a mouthful of blood. He spits, devious. "I'd wager he knows a lot—doesn't he? About Kakarot, about me, you—about your situation—and that's why he sent you today, right? That's why he allowed my request to speak with you, because he's a fucking sadist who's punishing you for being a saiyan. And you're letting him, because you hate yourself just as much as he hates you."

Under his breath, Thirty-Two scoffs. "I imagine he hates you far more than me."

"And that's why he's having the likes of you execute me once again. Should we expect another public spectacle? Another grand load of ass kissing to the Frost Empire, live on air? What a joke… I bet he thinks himself so poetic, too, the bastard… Using a saiyan to butcher a saiyan for being a saiyan. Don't think this isn't about you, too."

"Like I don't know that," Thirty-Two hisses. He just doesn't care.

"And it'll be a message for Kakarot."

Thirty-Two persuades himself that he doesn't care about that, either, and when he tries to force his mouth to open to tell Vegeta as much, something strange happens. His lips become adhesive.

"He'll want you to kill Kakaort next," Vegeta goes on to say, tone wearier. "You'll never be allowed to drop dead until after you have your father's blood on your hands. He wants a full circle. What goes around comes around."

Thirty-Two can't help but think of Cilo, of what happened back there… "Blue Bridge…"

"I never trusted them for a second."

Neither had Thirty-Two. How long has it belonged to Lord Hailer? Even as far back as when they saved Vegeta the first time? Had Lya known? Ytvl hadn't.

"We just needed their connections," Vegeta adds when Thirty-Two doesn't speak, "for you."

At this, Thirty-Two actually barks out a discreet laugh, and so does Vegeta, his straining, bloodied expression tight but nonetheless amused with this fucked up state of affairs. The irony isn't lost on either of them.

Smirking, Vegeta adds, "Kakarot is a dog with a bone."

Thirty-Two doesn't understand the expression.

"He'll never give up. He's too much of an idiot to know when to stop," he elaborates, slacking against the restraints. The earlier bouts of murdering and destruction must have taken it out of him. His eyes are closed, perhaps signifying the sheenks finally doing its job. "God knows why he's bothering with you after all the shit you've pulled… but that's just like him."

Thirty-Two doesn't know how to respond to that, so he doesn't.

Instead, he says, "I will be performing the Boiler this evening."

A trickle of sweat glistens when Vegeta's head droops forward. He grits his teeth. "That soon? Hailer must be paranoid it'll be interrupted."

"Mm. There are mounted defenses. Hundreds of men will be stationed. He is likely anticipating Goku's interference."

"Does he intend to take Kakarot on one-on-one?"

Thirty-Two's been wondering the same thing. "Lord Hailer's strength is not limited to his combat ability. He enjoys the strategy of a situation, of overcoming his enemies and defeating them with overkill, whether that is through physical or psychological anguish. Lord Hailer does not do things by halves. He has set up his board in a manner for Goku to step onto it."

And then, as Vegeta earlier suggested, he will have Thirty-Two be the one to deliver the finishing blow to Goku, whether that's involving sheenks, astras, poison or whatever tool Lord Hailer has at his disposal.

Thirty-Two takes a breath, pulling his furs tighter around his shoulders. "No Super Saiyan will bring Lord Hailer's might to ruin…"

Vegeta's eyes remain closed even as he grins. "Oh, just give me that chance."

Thirty-Two doesn't doubt Vegeta's own self-assurance.

"I will perform the Boiler as deftly as I am able," Thirty-Two announces when a beat of silence passes.

"So magnanimous…"

Vegeta's not long for the world. Perhaps it's the thinning oxygen—Thirty-Two feels it, too. His head swims with unanchored thoughts that dare carry him away. It's time for him to leave.

"Wait," Vegeta says, gravelly and harsh, just as Thirty-Two makes step for the door. His head bobbles as he tries to raise it higher, to make final eye-contact with Thirty-Two. "Last time, before the… failed execution…. you asked about Kakarot… about Namek… Did you remember? What…What about before? About Earth? About… the fight there?"

Grainy memories make his head ache. Thirty-Two recalls that Vegeta hadn't been alone when first meeting Thirty-Two, but he remembers very little else, but not nothing at all. During that fight, years ago… Thirty-Two's hand reaching out, he recalls that, fingers stretching, grazing… so close… to close to the hand reaching back.

"I only remember the Super Saiyan," Thirty-Two leaves Vegeta with, because the rest feels oddly personal. "Always him."

The door locks behind with finality.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur, with his schedule changing a further three times, which actually relieves Thirty-Two of the anxiety born from his visitation with Vegeta. He's too busy to worry. Too concerned with preparing for the execution. Too focused on his own initiative. Today has to be the day Thirty-Two makes his move, and with the circumstances, and a pinch of luck, a namekian may well fall into his lap.

Overseer Cace won't be at the execution, now with his leading position at Cilo. Whilst everybody must know of his dual allegiance, it will never be explicitly stated; nobody of standing will dare publically make the connection between the Frost Empire and Cilo.

After escaping Ytvl's ship, Thirty-Two had avoided most of the fire between the warring vessels, but it'd been near impossible to escape entirely unscathed. His life pod had been struck just before he'd been able flee the chaos of war, and it'd malfunctioned so Thirty-Two had been forced into an emergency landing—or rather, crashing. As a result, he'd broken a wrist, a rib and two bones he can't quite remember the names of in his left leg. He'd stumbled out of the pod, geared up in a condensed variant of the usual space suit, having landed in the nose of the grand, violent ship that had shot him down.

Burning a hole through the metal, he'd forced his way in, scaled the steps up to the nearest airlock and slumped against its wall, checking his wounds.

He'd been discovered no less than five minutes later by soldiers dressed in blue.

It'd been a Southern ship. What had it been doing here—in an altercation between Cilo and the North? He hadn't a clue. But before he could mull it over, Thirty-Two had smothered his own surprised as the triangle of soldiers parted, revealing the leading captain of the ship.

"Lord Hailer insisted you lead a unit should you find yourself aboard out ship," the unfamiliar captain had informed, watching with a pulled lip as Thirty-Two slowly rose from the ground. He'd been wounded but nonetheless alert with caution.

Lord Hailer had known where Thirty-Two was, then.

"Are you ready to change the tide of the universe, Captain Thirty-Two?"

And so, Thirty-Two had once more been thrust into the line of fire.

He hadn't even known who he was fighting by this point. Cilo… Northerners… It had hardly mattered.

So long as you were not Southern, you were to die.

For hours, perhaps days, the battle had been relentless, an unyielding storm of laser fire and explosions that had torn through the void of space.

He'll always remember the moment Lord Hailer synched victory. Thirty-Two had fought ferociously despite his body's protests, his hands steady on the controls of the humble fighter ship, weaving between the onslaught of enemy vessels. His ship, though swift, had been outgunned and outnumbered. The once-pristine Southern hull had become riddled with scorched dents and flickering systems.

He had outmaneuvered his enemies at every turn, and then, with the engines compromised and the shields failing, carrying on had seemed like an impossible hope. As another barrage of plasma fire had slammed into the ship's already impaired side, a sharp alarm had blared—critical damage.

Thirty-Two had taken one last look at the flashing tactical display. The enemy ships had been closing in, and the little fighter ship had become condemned, and as a result, Thirty-Two had made his choice. He had activated the emergency escape protocol, engaging the smaller, faster escape pod docked on the lower deck. His crew had already evacuated, their desperate voices echoing in his comms, but there hadn't been time to round them all up. He'd had to go at it alone.

In the chaos, he had sprinted to the pod, feeling the ship groan and shudder with every impact. He had unsealed the hatch, launched into the cold expanse, and watched as his fighter ship disappeared in a ball of fire behind him, other life pods sprinkled around. As he had drifted further from the wreckage, the sounds of the battle faded, replaced by the eerie silence of space—until finally, the familiar silhouette of the Icier Cruiser approached.

It'd been King of the graveyard, with nobody else left to contest it.

Lord Hailer… had risen above all. Not only of the Southern Empire, he reigns, but the entire universe. Unchallenged. Unrivalled.

"How unfortunate you'd been unable to reach Earth," Lord Hailer had said after Thirty-Two, bloodied and ruined, had knelt before his master. "All things considered, I may find it in my heart to forgive you, considering our triumph. Now… shall we together go admire your father's corpse?"

Goku hadn't been found at Blue Bridge.

It hadn't been hope that Thirty-Two had felt bloom in his chest, but it'd been something that had made him sit for a long time in the shower, unmoving as tepid water had rained over him.

He's alive.

It hadn't been an upsetting feeling. He'd left the bathroom, steam pleasantly drifting after him.

This (what would soon be understood as) relief would be poisoned at the announcement of Vegeta's capture.

Despite his usual stoicism, Overseer Cace's jubilance had been obvious.

"You have been gifted the opportunity to make this right," he had exhaled, lips twitching. "Your humiliation will be a slate wiped once you Boil the prince. How incredible. Despite your recently lackluster performance, Lord Hailer has bestowed you with this honour. You cannot fail again."

Executing Vegeta brings Thirty-Two no honour, nor any misguided belief that he would actually be doing a good thing. He can't even persuade himself that Vegeta is an evil person anymore, not after knowing the woman who loves him.

Yes, leaving him alone in that cell to rot had felt… wron—Ooowch!

"Mm, yes." The doctor nods as Thirty-Two retracts his tail back around his waist. "Tail sensitivity isn't unusual with adolescent saiyans, although I'm no expert in Saiyan anatomy, so I can't tell you how long you might experience this. How is your nutritional intake? Are you eating full meals?"

"Yes," he lies.

"Mmm… And are you still taking… that medicine?"

No, he's not taking testosteroids. They're doing a fat load of nothing these days.

"No," he very levelly replies, teeth grit because of the still-throbbing of his wretched tail.

"Well, by the time you're fully naturally grown, the sensitivity should ease off. I recommend doing small daily exercises with it to build strength. Don't compress it as much as you can."

"It has to remain restricted or it'll…" Thirty-Two coughs, embarrassed. "It'll hit things… and people."

The doctor's lips purse. "Oh. Well, there may be some psychological stress which affects it, too, by the sounds of it. Make sure you're taking the time to de-stress as much as you can. Have you tried yoga?"

Thirty-Two leaves his check-up with, on one hand, the doctor's approval to butcher Vegeta, but on the other, a prescription for anti-anxiety medication.

Brilliant.

Thirty-Two reads the label of the medication, recognizing the medication as a floral remedy. Something, perhaps, an old fashioned woman from a backwards planet, would suggest when unable to get her hands on real medicine.

Into the trash it goes.

And around his waist the tail goes, restricted by a fine silk belt. It twitches unhappily as Thirty-Two fastens his fur-lined cape, which glides over his captain badge and armour, which has been polished to shine. As ordered, his jumpsuit is the beloved cashmere, and his scouter (which buzzes with flashing propaganda about the "SUDDEN EXECUTION OF A TRAITOR") slides over his left eye.

The mirror tells no lies; he's murder ready.

He's ushered to the refectory to eat something before the big show. It would have been nice to quickly sneak down to the Research Division to try and catch Nami, just so he can pretend none of this is happening. Glellork may be down there, too, perhaps feeling generous with his sugared delicacies.

Instead, the refectory is Thirty-Two's destined feeding ground, and, as ever, it is alive with noise—voices shouting over one another, clattering trays, the hum of low conversation. Soldiers crowd the tables, their uniforms clean and armour polished for the execution. Never have they smelled so acceptable. The air, however, is thick with the additional smell of burnt meat and overcooked vegetables. Despite the occasional, the slop looks as mushy as ever, the meat tough and dry, and the juice tastes more like tar than anything drinkable. A few soldiers joke about the miserable fare half-heartedly, but their laughter is real with rich bloodlust. Several call Thirty-Two's name when they see him. Like last time, their sudden distaste for him is dust in the air when murder is on the table.

In spite of this, Thirty-Two still chooses to sit alone, running his cutlery through his imparted slop, staring out the window.

Many a mountain stand heavy and silent, shrouded in a thick, relentless snowfall. The sky is a dull, washed-out grey, with no sun to break the monotony. The landscape feels lifeless, the air cold and biting, each breath visible in the stillness. The barren trees loom like silent giants, indifferent and uncaring, their peaks lost in the haze. Everything is weighed down, as if the world itself is too tired to move.

How he hates it here…

Fuck this.

Fuck them.

Fuck everyone.

This is it, Thirty-Two promises himself. This is the day he has to make the wish. This is the only opportunity he'll ever have to break free of all of them, of these shackles that cut into flesh. He believes in no promises of eternal sleeps and he believes in no promises of fresh beginnings.

Whatever the case, Thirty-Two will make his move. He has faith that Goku, and more importantly, Piccolo, will not allow the execution to go without upheaval.

At the execution, something must happen.

Thirty-Two's wish relies on it.

Gohan Son died in the explosion of planet Namek.

And number Thirty-Two will today join him.

There are already crowds congregated in the amphitheatre, a viewing area great enough to host such an event as prestigious as Prince Vegeta's execution. This amphitheater sits nestled in the snow-covered mountains, its stone tiers half-buried beneath thick layers of white. Jagged peaks rise sharply in the distance, their tips dusted with snow, while the air is crisp and still, carrying only the faint whisper of wind. Frost clings to the ancient stone, giving the seats an eerie, frozen sheen. In the centre, the stage remains untouched, the snow around it unbroken except for the prized offering all for Thirty-Two.

Vegeta.

Lord Hailer must be somewhere above the crowds, or perhaps, this time, he is watching this from the comfort of his own chamber as Thirty-Two, and the men, freeze under the scrutiny of the many cameras circulating the stage.

Vegeta doesn't look as drained as the first time he found himself on the chopping block. Thirty-Two had heard that he's been relatively well-behaved all things considered. Since Thirty-Two's visit with him, he has put up little to no fight. He's either devoid of hope… or scheming.

Thirty-Two doesn't know what's worse.

Here goes nothing.

He rolls his shoulders back, taking his step into the theatre.

His presence is immediate—silent, looming, his cape sweeping the floor as he walks. The vast silence is punctuated only by the occasional creak of ice and the soft crunch of footsteps, as if the mountains themselves are holding their breath, and the entire theatre falls into an uneasy hush, the weight of anticipation pressing down on the air. The murmurs of the crowd subside, replaced by the sharp scrape of boots on the stone floor. Thirty-Two's head is poised low, obscuring most of his face, but his eyes, emergent from under his bangs, are empty of emotion. Already, he wants this to be but an awful memory.

It's at this point, Thirty-Two recognizes that's he's still waiting for something to happen, and not just for a namekian to fall into his lap from the heavens. It's also… admittedly, for hope. He wants something–anything—to dislodge this responsibility from him. He doesn't want to execute Vegeta. He… He doesn't want to execute anybody, and because of this, his heart beats so fiercely that Thirty-Two is sure his ribs will crack once more—not from fear of performing the Boiler poorly. No, he doesn't care about that anymore. It's the sad tightness that dares to creep into his throat. That's the real horror.

Thirty-Two remembers his breakdown in the communal bunkroom, and a wave of fear crashes over him, contracting his chest and stealing his breath. It's difficult to keep his expression neutral, but he must be managing it because the bloodthirstiness hasn't left the crowds' ugly, evil eyes.

He's scared, he realizes. For what? For Vegeta? No, not that. Pity for him, maybe, but not fear.

He's waiting...

That's why he's scared.

Hope.

Thirty-Two briefly looks up. There is no ceiling to break through, only the white, empty sky.

A gust of icy wind carries Thirty-Two's cape as he walks.

Goku…

The condemned Vegeta still stands in the centre, his hands bound, his face pale from the sheenks exposure. He twitches at the sight of the Thirty-Two, but makes no sound. Thirty-Two ignores him, focusing only on the task ahead. A heavy silence settles over the crowd as the onlookers await the inevitable. They know what is to come, and yet there is a palpable energy in the air, an unspoken excitement.

Whispers chorus around. He hears his name. Vegeta's too, but they're less kind about him.

He approaches the platform with deliberate steps, each one echoing in the stillness. The crowd holds its breath. Finally, the walk comes to an end, and the sky remains bare.

"There are to be no last words," Thirty-Two announces to all those misfortunate to be watching. The words had been memorized easily. "Lord Hailer had already bestowed such a kindness, to have it thrown back so cruelly, and so now, by the hand of our rightful and one ruler, Prince Vegeta will be once more sentenced to death."

Vegeta looks at Thirty-Two, the expression heavy with words not needed to be said.

This is where the ceiling should have been destroyed…

Goku, Goku, Goku…

Thirty-Two swallows, positions himself, and raises his hand. The ball of growing ki glints in the dim daylight, ready to jet free. No one moves. The moment stretches, then, with a single swift motion—

Nothing.

Goku isn't here.

He's not coming, is he?

The snow blankets Vegeta as he awaits the Boiler.

Cooking, the technique blisters in the Thirty-Two's hand, until…

Quite suddenly, Vegeta throws a hand upwards, volleying what must be the most pitiful orb of white-yellow ki imaginable. It wobbles past Thirty-Two and into the milky clouds, sitting just below. It doesn't move, hovering there like a drunken ball. The crowd laughs, shouting names and insults and cusses, but conversely, Thirty-Two is confused. His brows knit together, him trying to desperately understand why Vegeta would waste what little energy he had on that.

But even weirder, Vegeta is grinning through his panting. "L-Look at it," he manages, utterly ragged. "Look."

Then, Thirty-Two does.

And… he's unable to look away.

What… is it?

The light hangs in the pale, white sky, its silvery glow faint against the expanse. There is no contrast, no darkness to define it, just an ethereal presence suspended in the light. It seems almost unreal, a delicate orb drifting quietly, untouched by the dullness of a Central day.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

The Boiler slips from his fingers, becoming embers.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

Someone in the crowd… shouts… his… name…

Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

The light in the sky…

It's… is it a moon?

Ba-dump.

Wait… What's happening?

Ba-dump.

Why can't he look away?

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

Tearing the silk, his tail unfurls, and then…

Ba-dump.

Everything goes black.

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