Number Thirty-Two
Chapter One
The Number
Thirty-Two is a contrary figure.
He once had quite the spotty record for following orders; his past is rich in indiscretion. There are the many treacherous actions against his most beloved Frost Empire.
One would never guess to Thirty-Two's insubordination now, but when Thirty-Two had been a boy he'd taken so many beatings that the hospital ward had grown more familiar than his own chamber. And really, the orders had been not entirely unreasonable, but Thirty-Two had simply been that way inclined. Stubborn. Proud. Righteous, as Thirty-Two had once deemed even despite his young years. His beliefs had sung from his heart, and he'd take a cane across the face with the same honour as accepting an award. It'd been only as Thirty-Two grew older that he'd wizened up to. Pride had given him very little except internal bleeding. And if he'd followed the Frost Empire's way instead of digging his heels in at every instance then the beatings would lessen. And, sure enough, they did.
In time, the orders from superiors grew more expectant, and so he next met those, until it reached the day Thirty-Two had accepted so many orders that he became able to give orders himself.
Captain Thirty-Two. A willful person once, now a dog.
His reputation for delivering the bite of the Frost Empire precedes him within the South Quadrant; and yes, this reputation may be young for he is young, but this bite is nearly always fatal. Captain Thirty-Two is one of the very best Lord Hailer has to offer, after all. A rising star.
Yet, today's tall order even has Thirty-Two questioning his own ability to deliver.
As the morning is young, this has yet to happen, and the only thing pressing Thirty-Two right now is the need to come face to face with the Frost Empire's latest prisoner. It'd marked a crucial failure for Thirty-Two in that he hadn't been the one to apprehend the trespasser. This trespasser (now prisoner) has ties to the illustrious Planet Namek, but more importantly, has ties to a history Thirty-Two has been smothering for years.
It's only time until the prisoner is publicly revealed – and subsequently executed – so Thirty-Two must have his words now before the opportunity is thwarted. He's supposed to visit the physician today, and he reports as much.
With most soldiers dining on gruel in the refectory, Thirty-Two has the benefit of going unnoticed in this venture. Like the creatures they are, they operate on clockwork; the monotony of schedule containing them like cattle and herding them only within strict parameters. This at least provides Thirty-Two the opportunity to stalk the sparsity of the ship alone. The curling corridors churning into the bowl, where the containment cells are, soon grow moist and murky as the air thickens with noxious smells, suggesting the nearby storage facility for fuel. Not many would find their way to this section of the ship, save for a few workers or those sneaking their way to the back entrance of the prisoner compartments.
There is a lift to take. As it goes down on its rickety journey, Thirty-Two stares out of the floor-to-ceiling length window looking outwards into the infinity of space. Speckles of stars and planets alike glisten in the black, a backdrop to the traffic of passerby ships, large and small alike. In the solitude of the descent, he looks out across the gloom and lets his gaze run askew and lose focus.
When the window stops being just that – instead, now a mirror – Thirty-Two feels uncomfortable with the reflection staring back, as generally, he finds himself unpleasant to look at. This is why he so often wears his scarf, but there's little use for it here so far away from the cold. Instead, dark eyes, rimmed by ever darker pockets of skin, glare over the stars. Sallow, he's been called. Ghostly pale. Sickly. It's been made worse by the growth-spurt; he's now tall – gawky – and unsuspectingly thin despite his muscle. Thirty-Two takes great pleasure in hiding all this in the bundle of layers making up his uniform, especially under the furs, which broaden him out and make him look older than he is.
All in all, he's a soldier, and a tired one at that.
He's understandably exhausted after doing the trip from the Southern Quadrant to the Northern Quadrant. It took three days and he's greyer for it, hating the place even more than usual for the crime of Thirty-Two having to be here in it.
Another such crime is that the Northern Quadrant isn't nearly as cold as its Southern counterpart. Thirty-Two is used to snow and ice, and the chill of always having frosty fingers, and so feels accordingly naked for not having to wear his furs. Said furs (a long cloak made up of slain creatures) lies in a crumpled pile of greys and whites atop his cabin bed, betrayed. Still, if Thirty-Two can get away with not having to wear them (regardless of how powerful they make him appear) he will. The association tied to the furs is one of patriotism to one Lord of the Southern Quadrant. Last year, when Thirty-Two had been promoted to Captain and the furs had been bestowed, he'd looked at them with a hollow sort of feeling. He'd never wanted to be a captain after all, but it'd always been an unspoken promise. The furs had represented the predestined step in his life. Shackles, really.
The lift soon stutters to a halt and finally Thirty-Two reaches the dismal underbelly of the beast. Unlike the Southern Quadrant, the technology seems older here in the North, and that age extends to the rustic nature of the ship. The doors creek open and the toxic stench from earlier swells in Thirty-Two's throat, likely from outdated gas cannisters, encouraging him to stride his way at speed, mouth covered, in aim of the emergency entry point of the containment cells. Sweaty walls with peeling paint break into a heavy, rust ruined door, which he next pushes open, revealing the cells themselves. They're of course infused with sheenks. It's a substance used to repress energy, with it slowly exhausting those around.
The dimly lit hallway of these sheeks infused cells is impressively long, and he'd be spoilt for choice if not for knowing where this mystery prisoner must be being held. The most secure of all the units.
Cell #001.
When he stops to peer into the darkness, Thirty-Two holds his breath.
So, it's true.
He's had but a few shocks during his short time serving as a captain, this quite possibly the worst of them all, for in front of him in a decrepit prison stands a man he'd long thought dead.
Vegeta, the once Prince of the Saiyan people.
Aside blurry, painful memories, Thirty-Two has seen Vegeta's pictures in the database. A younger Vegeta: sour and arrogant, someone easy to detest, with a planetary purging record that has remained unmatched even to this day.
Another soldier.
A now imprisoned soldier.
Thirty-Two imagines very few men would dare go too far into the ship's foundation for the rotting stench of corpses is enough to relinquish any man of his dinner. It's likely Thirty-Two is Vegeta's first visitor since his incarceration, more so because nobody is yet to know of his imprisonment.
Vegeta eyes Thirty-Two's armour with severe dislike, and then turns up to acknowledge Thirty-Two personally. If anything, the level of dislike seems to increase.
Thirty-Two considers that Vegeta might even recognize him, but the moment comes to pass without any comment on it. Really, ten years really is a long time and Thirty-Two would have just been amongst the many faces Vegeta has seen come and go. The memories of cutting cruelty resurface quite quickly for Thirty-Two however, and even if he'd been young upon their first meeting, Vegeta is a person not quite so easily forgotten.
Thirty-Two braces himself.
"Do you speak the common-tongue, boy?"
"I do."
"So, what do you want, then? Are you here to bring me that slop you call food or to clean my piss? Because I'm sorry to disappoint you but I'm interested in neither."
Thirty-Two taps at his armour as if Vegeta hadn't yet noticed. "I'm a soldier, not a slave."
"Same difference." Vegeta saunters over to the bars. It's a move that's supposed to intimate Thirty-Two but the latter doesn't take as single step back. "Here I thought Hailer's famous Southern soldiers would be a little more intimidating, instead they send someone barely a man."
"And here I thought you'd be taller, so I imagine we're both surprised."
The desired effect takes place and Vegeta swivels. "Let's see how tall you'll be when I knock your head off, you little shit!"
Thirty-Two's scouter beeps to life and he watches in cool contemplation as the device documents Vegeta's reactive energy spike. Even with the sheenks, the numbers climb and climb until the machine runs so hot that Thirty-Two must turn it off.
"Tch!" Vegeta bites out something in the common-tongue Thirty-Two doesn't understand entirely. His fluency, whilst excellent, is not perfect, and so any flowery insult uniquely woven enough can throw him. Vegeta finishes with; "If you still need that pitiful thing attached to your face then you better keep me in this cage."
"Perhaps they are more evolved than your last experience with them," Thirty-Two says curtly. "Smart technology has come a long way since your retirement."
"Don't make me laugh. Retirement," he repeats, derisive. "Abandonment, terrorism, treason… You'll get chucked in here along with me unless you use Frost appropriate language." Thirty-Two spares a glance around the hole, stopping only for the skeleton in the corner. Vegeta snorts. "Yes, my bunkmate is just a riot. I can see standards haven't really changed in my absence."
Clearly, Vegeta hasn't been travelling for some time. He looks healthy and without injury. His weight is good. Has he been in hiding? If so, who has been harbouring him? Does he have a base – allies, perhaps? There's little use in asking so Thirty-Two doesn't beat around the bush.
"They say a saiyan killed Lord Frieza," Thirty-Two reveals, watching Vegeta's expression shifting into something new, something inquisitive and curious.
"Yeah, and what of it?"
"Some say that saiyan was you."
Through the bars, Vegeta's rigid hold on himself drops with a burst of dark laughter.
"I wish it was."
"So you're saying it wasn't?"
Vegeta then smirks and leans against the bars of his cell, quiet.
Thirty-Two keeps his gaze fixed. "Were you there the night Lord Frieza was killed?"
"Does Hailer want to know? Or Cooler? They can come themselves." Thirty-Two doesn't have an answer because the truth is far more personal than he'd ever reveal. Vegeta, ironically, mistakes this for loyalty; there's a long pause whilst the man appraises him until, in a very quiet voice, he sneers; "Why would I tell a little boot-licking piece of shit like you anything?"
Silence follows and Thirty-Two bats his eyes lazily, pretending that he doesn't feel so frustrated that he could reach in and throttle him. It's fine, he thinks, because at the end of this encounter Thirty-Two gets to walk away out of this shit infested cell and go somewhere that doesn't smell like defecation and sick.
"I know for a fact that you died that night."
Vegeta's chin rises. "Yet here I am."
So true, here is he, as alive as one could be, stirring up all of Thirty-Two's doubt and opening him up to a scary world of possibility. If Vegeta survived that night, then, possibly… could…?
Thirty-Two's scouter beeps.
Vegeta, who recognizes the chime instantly, likely from his own line of service, dismissively bats a hand at him as he returns to the darkness of his cell. "Master is calling."
Thirty-Two presses the sleek button on its side, answering. Master, indeed.
Hindered by the sudden summoning, Thirty-Two eyeballs the prisoner one last time, knowing that whatever Lord Hailer wants probably has to do with who is currently standing right in front him. It's with regret that Thirty-Two returns to the surface.
Once Thirty-Two manages to escape the foul reaches of the ship and make it to the Meeting Hall, he notices instantly that something isn't quite right. Lord Hailer doesn't like armed guards on his doors, yet here stand two burly, brain-dead looking soldiers with guns. They're positioned either side, immediately eager for a fight.
"Fuck off," one greets.
When Thirty-Two reaches for the doorhandle, the other swings the gun in aim of him. "He said to fuck off, ye' silly twat. What's some punk like you thinkin' he can just waltz in there? After Lord Cooler's autograph, are ye'?"
"Or maybe you just want one of our cocks up ye' arse."
Thirty-Two's lips press into a thin line. None of the Northern soldiers know Thirty-Two by face so they regularly assume him to be an errand boy, and as such, Thirty-Two would gesture to his captain-rank badge and the soldiers would trip over each other, apologising. Other times, he'd break their arms. Seeing as Thirty-Two's badge currently lies on a table in his cabin room along with his furs, it looks likely to be the latter.
"Lord Hailer summoned me."
"Did he now?" the first gasps without sincerity, "I didn't think he had a thing for pretty little boys."
Now, Thirty-Two isn't one to react under normal circumstance, but this goes beyond disrespect. This is about his pride as a man. Break an arm? No. He'll break every limb – but before Thirty-Two could reach out and snap a single bone, a gloved hand covers his own.
"Captain Ytvl!" the two guards address at once.
"Men," this new captain acknowledges.
Their bodies erect before cutting into symmetrical bows, and Thirty-Two takes the opportunity to step away.
"You know," the captain – Captain Ytvl – begins casually to Thirty-Two's desired victims, "I think I just saved your lives."
Captain Ytvl turns and gives Thirty-Two an earnest sort of smile. It's a bit unnerving, really; it's the type of smile Thirty-Two sees the common people share with one another, friendly and discomforting. He's probably a Northerner. Yes. That explains it. Not in the South would you see the officers so publicly affable with one another.
He looks quite important, now that Thirty-Two thinks about it; donned in a long, flowing red cape which sits over shiny, studded bronze armour. It's every bit the antithesis of Thirty-Two's very plain, very blue jumpsuit and armour set.
"Captain," Ytvl stresses as he forces Thirty-Two's hand into a shake. This earns the desired effect when the guards bow their head and rush to apologise. Ytvl holds his other hand up in admonishment. "No, I think our guest has heard enough from you two, though do feel free to visit my quarters tonight for appropriate retribution."
"Of course, sir."
"Yes, Captain."
Captain Ytvl opens the door and gestures for Thirty-Two to enter first. It's an extensive, drawn-out hallway with only one opposing door. The room is decorative, ornate perhaps, and without any further guards, seeming like such a waste of space. Anything for grandeur, Thirty-Two supposes.
"Definitely a Southerner, aren't you?" Ytvl comments, delighted with the prospect of it. When Thirty-Two doesn't reply, it somehow seems to give Ytvl the expectation that he should continue talking. "Lord Hailer has brought a whole fleet of you this time. Has he even left any men in the South?"
"Enough to hold it," Thirty-Two dismisses in the hopes that Ytvl would read the room.
He doesn't.
"Lord Cooler has been quite busy with the preparations for Lord Hailer's visit for some time now, but I doubt even he foresaw the swarm of Southerners following Lord Hailer here."
"You'd almost think that they don't trust each other," Thirty-Two replies dryly.
Ytvl's laugh is just as obnoxious as himself. It's open and carefree and Thirty-Two can't help but watch him, unnerved. He then wonders if Ytvl had ever been in the Youth Program like Thirty-Two had been. This captain's demeanour doesn't suggest he had, however, because most ex-Youth Program soldiers don't run around grinning at people and laughing like a deranged moose.
Ytvl sighs. "Too true… Sometimes, I wish they'd just go to war and be done with it."
Thirty-Two swallows his shock at such a statement.
"Oh, it wouldn't hurt you Southern fellows to lighten up. Really, war is imminent. Why bother denying the fact?"
"Then I'm your enemy," replies Thirty-Two after a brief pause, "By your logic."
Ytvl's mouth quirks into a smile. "I suppose you are, but I imagine that's hardly a surprise for you. Despite the two of us working for the Frost Empire, we're both still very much working under two different leaders."
Thirty-Two hums non-committedly in response.
The other captain wears flippancy as though discussing the weather as opposed to treason. The strangeness isn't lost on Thirty-Two.
And it also begs the question; how had he known Thirty-Two by face alone? Thirty-Two certainly wouldn't have been able to pick Ytvl out of a crowd. They've never once spoken, nor met.
Thirty-Two mentally stores away his doubts for later to focus on what's waiting for him behind the final door. Upon entering, they vomit outwards into a garish visual assault of patriotism. Red and Blue: these are the colours of the North and South, symbolizing what's left of a crumbling union of a rotten family; if anything, the clash of colour is the unadulterated allegory for the political situation.
In the centre of that and the room, Lord Hailer sits dramatically on a large, wooden throne probably decades older than Thirty-Two is. He is without his usual glass of wine, but is, however, accompanied by Lord Cooler who is sitting in a uniformly tasteless throw of gaudiness.
"My Lords," Thirty-Two greets at the same time as Ytvl. Both sink to their knees in dutiful unison.
"Rise, both of you," Lord Cooler instructs, and so they do.
Between Lord Frieza and Lord Cooler, it is Lord Cooler who resembles Lord Hailer most, especially in appearance. They both share a similar build and face shape, and a calmness which Lord Frieza had not had.
Lord Cooler is famously easier to digest than the rest of his family, for; simply, he is a military man with a taste for decadence. There is little ego. Whilst not as married to hierarchy as the rest of his family, he is known to cultivate impressive squads with skilled leaders. He doesn't look at his men with disdain, as proven when he gestures towards the captain to Thirty-Two's left.
"Do you remember Captain Ytvl, Brother?" he asks, almost fondly.
"So you're the captain who brought in Vegeta," Lord Hailer notes. There's no congratulatory tone in his voice, as unlike Lord Cooler, Lord Hailer spares no pride for the men.
This doesn't stop Ytvl from peacocking. "Yes, my lord. He wasn't willing one might say but our team managed to bring him in in the end."
"My medics say he hasn't a single broken bone."
"He was healed in a regeneration tank, my lord."
Unsurprisingly, it's Lord Cooler's patience which cracks first. "You said you wanted him well and alive and so I present him to you as such."
"Which means you've had him in your custody longer than you've cared to admit," Lord Hailer notes. He reaches out with his scaly hand, clicking his fingers. Thirty-Two knows Lord Hailer well enough to understand what that means, and sure enough, a pathetic looking creature ambles over from the shadows carrying a tray holding two tumblers.
The sickly scent of Lord Hailer's favourite wine never sits well with Thirty-Two. He'd been misfortunate enough to try it once, hating the tartness of it but having to pretend to be thankful all the same. Both lords take a glass each. By the time Lord Cooler finishes a sip, Lord Hailer has already downed half of its contents.
"Brother," Lord Hailer then initiates stonily, and Thirty-Two knows this is his turn to make an impression. "This is Captain Thirty-Two of South Central."
Thirty-Two bows his head respectfully even as Lord Cooler scoffs.
"What? Are you now so cruel as to deny your men names?"
"The men are free to choose whatever names they so please. Should they not want a name then I'm not one to stop them using their recruitment numbers."
Lord Cooler holds Thirty-Two captive under the same cool, pinprick eyes of his brother. "I see, so you're from the Youth Program."
He sounds impressed, enough so that Lord Hailer must be quietly pleased.
"Whilst I do admire the program's work, I'd rather my men have a bit more bite about them. Free-will breeds creativity, and from that, intelligence. Not too much, of course. But I've always valued initiative."
Lord Hailer knows he is intelligent enough without the help of his men. His hubris allows for no influence.
"At least neither of us cull our soldiers for simply existing. Let us agree on that," Lord Cooler says next, swirling his wine, clearly thinking of their departed brother. "He did have quite the temper. Did he not?"
"Of course, but it could not be helped. His subordinates were societal degenerates."
"Like Vegeta, you mean?"
"And now we have come full circle."
"Perhaps if he'd used the Youth Program then he wouldn't have ended up surrounded by a ridiculous militia, or better yet, dead. The Ginyu Force, honestly… What'd that arrogant, little horror been thinking?"
"Of nothing."
"I can drink to that." And so Lord Cooler does. The glass lowers and he once more considers Thirty-Two. "Now, this one looks disciplined. There must be no worries about prancing and performing with him."
"Yes… Thirty-Two is a fine example of the Youth Program."
Lord Cooler looks him up and down, and suddenly Thirty-Two wishes that he'd dressed as finely as Ytvl this morning.
"Well, he certainly must have cost enough."
"An investment, I assure you."
"Mm… Just how old is he? He looks fresh. When did you graduate, Captain?"
"A year and a half ago," Thirty-Two replies when urged by Lord Hailer, "I am eighteen winters, my lord."
"An early graduate. Very remarkable. You know, Brother, I could do with some more manpower North-West. I'm curious to—"
"No. Captain Thirty-Two is required southward." Lord Hailer then drains the glass and leans back into the wooden frame, regarding Thirty-Two with his usual level of contempt he has for all underlings. "He is one of several Youth Program soldiers I have ingrained in my institution, but most definitely a standout in his own right. That's why I wish to nominate him for the role of executioner."
Executioner?
Lord Cooler jolts, pleasantries forgotten. "Brother!"
Simply, Lord Hailer savours the horror.
"Absolutely not," Lord Cooler continues, "That is hardly fair when Captain Ytvl and his men brought Vegeta in. He should be the one to finish Vegeta, or better yet, we should ourselves kill him."
"I do not dirty my hands with the lives of the lesser, and neither should you," Lord Hailer advises, clipped with disgust. "The execution will be in your territory and within the confines of your mother ship, yet the deed performed by my will."
Lord Cooler mulls this over, still clearly unhappy.
So Lord Hailer continues, "It will be the combination of both of our authorities to bring retribution to our Empire. Brother and Father will be avenged, at least partially, and we'll capture the footage of the happening and air it live to the billions across the universe under our decree."
Lord Cooler looks as surprised as Thirty-Two feels. "And to what crime do we announce for Vegeta? I refuse to relay that he was Frieza's murderer when we both know he was not. I want the man who tarnished the Frost Empire's name to pay the price in blood. I want that saiyan."
"In time, Brother. For now, the very crime is being Saiyan." Lord Hailer's gaze darkens when he faces Thirty-Two. "It shall be law that any remaining saiyan are to be sentenced to death, quietly so, without attention. Their existence alone is a danger to the Frost Empire and its beliefs, and accordingly they need to be eradicated in order to preserve its prosperity."
Lord Cooler stills as he contemplates this, coming to settle his gaze on Captain Ytvl as though looking for a comrade's opinion on the matter. Whoever this Ytvl is, he seems to have earned the respect of his lord.
"Oh, really, and what do you suppose I do with any remaining saiyans in my army, Brother?" It sounds rhetorical but Lord Hailer is quick with an answer.
"Put them to death."
"My men are loyal," Lord Cooler stresses. "We're not Frieza. I don't want to kill good men on the grounds of stained blood."
Lord Hailer's tail bats harder against the marble and the small cracks soon begin to rupture the marble.
"Really, how many saiyans do you have? I barely have enough to fill a purging unit."
Thirty-Two watches on, and senses unease from Captain Ytvl beside him. His face isn't as easy to read as earlier, but the signs of stress are rather clear; sweat prickles at the top of his forehead and he's most certainly turned a shade lighter. How curious. Is Ytvl a saiyan? Or perchance, has he saiyan friends?
"Let the message be clear," Lord Hailer pressures, "If any sheep dare oppose us then the whole flock shall be put down."
"You want to finish Freiza's little genocide of the saiyans."
"I do."
Cooler breathes through his nose and pauses. He doesn't spare a look at Ytvl this time.
"I have… perhaps thirty, forty, saiyans mixbloods, good men mostly. Stubborn, but strong… You're asking a lot of me."
"Do this and I assure you that we will soon close in on the one who brought shame against the Frost name, against the one who slayed Frieza."
Lord Cooler bats his claw-like fingers on the armrest for minutes at least, leaving Lord Hailer to watch him with impressive wait. It's only time until Lord Hailer is rewarded; purple lips upturn into a snarl and Lord Cooler lashes out, knocking his wine glass from the table, the growl ripping from his throat echoing and petulant. The explosion of shattering glass has shards bounce against Thirty-Two's boots.
"This best be worth it, Brother. My men should not be disposable!"
Lord Cooler launches upwards from his throne and storms through the double doors leading out, Captain Ytvl trickling after him, cape swishing in reminiscence of a dog's tail.
With equal obedience, Thirty-Two faces his lord.
Lord Hailer now watches him, self-satisfied as he usually is after winning a reaction from Lord Cooler. He clicks his fingers once more and the same creature from earlier appears, with a singular glass of wine this time. The sip taken is a generous one.
He watches Thirty-Two for a long time, unmoving.
"Nothing rattles you, does it, Captain?"
Tense, he keeps his voice as light as it allows. "My lord?"
Lord Hailer continues to rake his eyes over him. The silence is deafening.
"Yes… I'm giving you such a monumental task and I haven't heard so much as a peep from you, not even a thank you." Lord Hailer isn't surprised at all, not really, and he doesn't expect Thirty-Two's gratitude. "No, but you're not bloodthirsty, are you, Captain? I suppose not all saiyans are as gratuitous as Vegeta."
Thirty-Two lowers his gaze, knowing that's what Lord Hailer wants in the moment. He wants Thirty-Two to be ashamed of his heritage. Being a saiyan is a sin, and now it's going to be written into law. His blood has never been revealed as per Lord Hailer's orders, and now Thirty-Two understands why, and that his lordship must have been planning for this law for some time. Vegeta is the perfect excuse to bring it into play.
"You know why you're being spared, Thirty-Two. Lest you forget it."
"Yes, my lord."
"You're dismissed. You'll receive detail on the time and date of the execution."
"Thank you, my lord."
The funny thing, Thirty-Two thinks as he marches from the room, is that he probably hates saiyans about as much as Lord Hailer does. He hates their bloodlust – their savage selfishness – but most of all, Thirty-Two hates his own connection to them, that the Saiyan people are his people.
Yet, he'll be the one to survive them all.
The doors bolt shut behind Thirty-Two just in time to hear Lord Hailer click his fingers once more.
How he feels about executing Vegeta is of little importance to Thirty-Two. He categorizes the endeavour under 'necessary duties' and sets about how he must do this.
Whilst Thirty-Two has never performed a public execution before he knows the technique Lord Hailer will insist upon; a ki-based procedure that's especially agonising. The victim is set aflame with an energy blast colloquially known as the 'Boiler'. It doesn't burn the prisoner to death instantly; instead, it torturously reduces moisture within the body until it withers away into a brownish, leather-like texture surviving on denatured protein. The corpses appear mummified, twisted like rotten taproots in their torment and smelling of defecation. It's unusually cruel, even by Frost Empire standards. Thirty-Two has managed to avoid having to perform it since his appointment. More so, he's avoided having to learn it as it's a pretty difficult technique to master. The temperature of the blast cannot be too low or too high otherwise the death will come too quickly, or just won't come at all. The procedure can take anything from a minute (usually, children) to hours, all entirely depending on the weight, size, race and energy ability of the victim.
And Thirty-Two has barely a few days to learn how to perform it. Wonderful.
Well, they don't call Thirty-Two a genius for no reason.
Perfect mind, perfect heath.
Or near as much.
"You need a higher fat intake," the physician tells him during the check-up he was earlier supposed to attend. As by Youth Program protocol, he is to report to a health professional for his usual monthly servicing, even in the North. "I will make a note in your record for a 28% carbohydrate increase in meal servings. It's most peculiar to me that your fat content remains so low and your muscle so high. Are you sure you're in the Hominidae family? Your species is listed as Aris-Mixblood…?"
Thirty-Two stares him out. "My usual physician tells me it's a thyroid issue."
"The stretchmarks on your—"
"I don't have stretchmarks," Thirty-Two insists pointedly.
There's a look of skepticism. "Captain, in matters of health, I—"
"Feel free to contact Lord Hailer and discuss it with him yourself. I report directly to him."
Understanding flashes. He looks down at Thirty-Two's printed reports again, once more seeing the contradictions in ink but now having the commonsense not to question them.
"Whatever medicine you may or may not be taking," the physician says cryptically, "Should be taken after a meal. If you do not correctly nourish your body, then it will next feed on the muscle. Eat fat dense foods and full servings, and don't avoid the refectory. I will follow up on your attendance and report accordingly."
"Right." Thirty-Two isn't pleased. "Am I allowed sugar yet?"
"That is something to take up with the stomatology division."
That very afternoon, he of course skips lunch in the refectory, opting to take a long walk around the ship's interiors instead. It's colder than earlier, but still nothing compared to the brutal weather of Central. He considers wearing his furs, and then remembers the connotation of doing as much; the display of patriotism for the South. Thirty-Two finds himself above all that and suffers secondhand embarrassment when he sees the other Southern captains flaunting them, chin high.
Knowing that a captain's meeting has been organized for today, Thirty-Two wants to find a space for some quiet time before the battle for dominance begins. Egos against egos. North against South. It's sure to be exhausting.
He finds a bench hidden behind a garden made up of …obnoxious shrubbery, where one bush has been trimmed to replicate the late Lord Cold's likeness. His green, bristly face has been posed with a particular air of smugness, marking Thirty-Two as relieved to have never had the pleasure of crossing paths with him before his death.
"I wonder if they had the gardener executed for this monstrosity."
Thirty-Two turns to see the captain from earlier, the Northern one who came into the meeting room with him. Ytvl. He's looking as polished as ever, smiling down at Thirty-Two with impressive guilelessness.
"How do you like the North?"
"I don't."
The unease seems to empower Ytvl, inspiring him to take an unwelcome seat next to Thirty-Two on the bench. Immediately discomforted at the closeness, Thirty-Two decides to see how Ytvl reacts to candor.
"How did you know who I was?"
If anything, Ytvl looks amused. "You don't know your fellow captains by face? That's not very comradely of you." He laughs when Thirty-Two doesn't respond, head back, throat exposed and frustratingly free. "They weren't kidding! You're so serious. Understandable, really, what with a master as tightly wrung as Lord Hailer."
Again, the tightrope of treasonous chatter. Thirty-Two wonders the aim of it. Ytvl is clearly not stupid. Lord Cooler favours him, and, whilst less strict, he suffers fools about as much as Lord Hailer does.
"I'm not interested in whatever you're trying to achieve by talking with me," Thirty-Two tells him, fixating his stare back on the hideous bush. He notices that the eyes are lopsided. "So take the senseless chattering elsewhere, Captain."
"How cold. I'd been hoping to strike up a friendship. One captain to another in these trying times."
A bitter laugh lodges itself in Thirty-Two's throat. "I'm afraid that I'm not interested in friends."
When Ytvl suggests friendship, what he actually means is an alliance. Captains often share coalitions; the foundation either born of blackmail or a treacherous, underhanded desire to oust the other. The rarely successful alliances are still paper thin. They share information, but nothing else. Not trust, not friendship. Which is fine by Thirty-Two because he has no interest in befriending any soldier.
"A friend in the North could be of value to you."
Thirty-Two remains firm. "I don't even have friends in the South."
From the corner of his eye, he notices Ytvl watching him more intensely than before. Neither speaks, and finally Ytvl seems to get the message.
"Ah, disappointing,"
That long red cape trails after Ytvl, pulling through artificial grass and out of sight until Thirty-Two finds himself contentedly alone once more. He breathes into his hands, shoulders crumbling forward.
When this is over, Thirty-Two will put in his request once more for a leave of absence. They've rejected it twice already, but surely if Thirty-Two performs the public execution suitably then they'll give him the several days he wants. Vegeta of the Saiyan people? That's going to bring him attention – esteem, even – if he helps do his bit for the propaganda machine. Yes. This is a good thing. Perhaps being the one to execute Vegeta is the bit of luck he needs.
He thinks of the research spread throughout his chamber back in the South, of the scrolls and hardbacks thick with makeshift bookmarks, notes and folded pages. The cleaners have complained about his askew paperwork many a time, and that's why they're now banned from his chamber; he swears they shuffle the papers and maps around on purpose just to madden him. The hours he's given this research. The months. Should he survive the next few days then he can put it all to use. Thirty-Two will finally be a step closer to his goal.
He wrings his hands together, giving a silent prayer that the meeting isn't too dreadful.
It is. It always is. Even though it doesn't run as long as usual it's still not without dramatics. Upon announcing the culling of remaining saiyans, many captains speak up; some even protest but most, like Thirty-Two, remain quiet on the topic, knowing their place isn't to question the hand that feeds them. Thirty-Two wonders if any of the Northern captains personally know Vegeta, or better yet, if any of them are saiyans themselves. Ytvl, who'd looked to have been affronted by the decision, wears a mask of complete indifference now, and if Thirty-Two hadn't seen his initial reaction he would have thought him entirely unbothered.
Thirty-Two counts nearly forty around the table. Whilst not every captain attends, many have this time, signifying that indeed these are trying times. Vegeta's execution feels like an event in itself, one Thirty-Two feels most unwelcome to attend.
"And why do you get the honours?" asks a burly Northern captain, clearly disgusted at the lack of being chosen to perform the duty. "You're not even old enough to know who Prince Vegeta is! And you're a Southerner."
Thirty-Two is sick of repeating himself. "Are you questioning our lords' decision on the matter?"
"O-Of course not! I just—Well, I…"
"It has been decided, and that's that, Captain."
Another Northern captain turns to face him. A rare woman: middle-aged with a large scar cleaved through one half of her face. "Do you know how to perform the Boiler?"
"I have some days to master it."
She nods, but some of the other Northern captains start talking amongst themselves with hushed horror at the admission. Even a few of the Southern captains look unimpressed.
The burly one shakes his head. "This is why Lord Cooler doesn't use soldiers from the Youth Program. You're a captain and you can't even perform the Boiler? What a travesty this institution is becoming."
His fellow Northern comrade laughs. "Oh, behave. If you were that bothered with getting one over on Vegeta then you woulda' killed him back when he served under you."
"He'd been protected by Lord Frieza, you know that."
"I still can't believe he's alive," says yet another Northerner. "He's like a cockroach."
"Do we know where he's even been?"
"No. He vasn't chipped, vas he?" tells a Southern captain in a thickened accent. "He's the reason vhy we've all got zhese chips now."
"What did he say?"
"Vegeta was never microchipped," relays another Southerner with better common-tongue.
"Yeah. That legislation came after he went AWOL. The bastard…"
Bastard, indeed. Thirty-Two reflects on the traumatic period when he'd been chipped, back when he'd been a boy, how – kicking and screaming – he'd been strapped down as they slotted it in at the base of his neck.
"I hear he's gotten real strong now. He killed three of Ytvl's men, ain't that right?"
Ytvl nods, saying nothing else. Completely impassive. Where is that carefree smile now?
"And yet, they leave his execution to a novice," says the Northern captain from earlier, so very eager to get under Thirty-Two's skin. "What'll happen when the kid loses control of him and he goes haywire, eh? Then, what?"
Thirty-Two pinches his brows. Really.
"Youth Program… Just a bunch of brats being thrown up the ranks! I had to earn it. We all had to earn it. And now—"
Suddenly, the table crashes down and the room plummets into quick, cutting silence. Above the dust and scattered papers, looms the culprit; Thirty-Two's fellow Southern captain and Youth Program alumni, Captain Pyrak.
God. Thirty-Two wishes they'd just him left in the South.
"I'm from the Youth Program and can perform the Boiler better than any of ya," Pyrak snarls. His bared teeth are sharp, making him appear more beast-like and unhinged than usual, and like many of the patriotic idiots, he's in his furs. "Old man! You say you don't like the Youth Program? Yeah? That's 'cause ya wouldn't have survived it!"
Similar to Thirty-Two, the other Southern captains are used to Pyrak's irrationality. There's a sigh. "'Zit down, Pyrak."
Instead, the beast struts over to the older, equally stupid, Northern captain. "Ya'know, I don't think Thirty-Two should have the honour, myself, but that's 'cause I think he's a pretentious little shithead.
"Ain't it funny? He doesn't know such a simple energy attack? What a joke! But what ya' gotta' understand is that that's got nothin' to do with the Youth Program!"
Thirty-Two closes his eyes and wills the world away.
"It coulda' been me. It shoulda' been. 'Course we know who Vegeta is! I would sing from atop a hill of shit to get a good swing at him, but if I can get over it then so can you, geezer!"
"What did you just call me!"
"Ya' a walkin' corpse! I can smell ya' from here!"
A rush of voices all talk at once, the sound escalating into a choir of discontent. Surely, even the servants can hear them outside. This needs to end.
"I'll be executing Vegeta using the Boiler," Thirty-Two announces in his loudest voice, standing. All turn to look at him, the frenzied conversations coming to a halt. "We are expected to stand proud and united during the demonstration. It will be aired live to millions, including the rebel groups opposing the Frost Empire. Let's remember our place."
Ytvl hums. "Indeed, let's."
Thirty-Two doesn't drop the stare, holding out until Ytvl bows his head, a smile – one patronizing – present. The other Northern captains take note, proving Ytvl to be an influence of his own making as suspected, and say nothing else on the matter. The meeting is adjourned.
Thirty-Two lies in bed that night, heavy with everything that's happened to him today. He's taken his medicine, swallowed his vitamins, and applied a prescribed burn ointment after already injuring himself with his first attempts at the Boiler. Here's hoping the red, itchy streaks don't keep him up the better part of the night. It's a foreign bed so he's already uneasy. Rarely does Thirty-Two stay anywhere aside his assigned chamber back at Central, and when he is being outsourced, he stays on a ship that he's acquainted with.
Understandably, tonight's sleep is struggling to find him.
He would once medicate himself with alcohol before a difficult night, one cup of hard scotch and nothing more, just to make him a touch lethargic. But he was written up for trading illegal goods. Youth Program alumni are not to abuse substance, after all.
The sleeping pills they gave him are about as good as useless, too… Figures.
Thirty-Two stares up at the ceiling, counting the tiles, noticing the cracks, wondering…
How many people have stayed in this bed? How many will after him? How immortal is the Frost Empire? Will it go on forever? Eternity is a long time, after all. Nothing can last forever, right?
Alarmed by the thought, he closes his eyes.
Vegeta is somewhere below, he registers. In the holding cells and stinking of rot, he's likely already been informed of his execution – they like to do that, to instill fear – and is probably satiating in his misery much like Thirty-Two is. Well, Thirty-Two at least hopes Vegeta is. Such a cruel man that Vegeta is, it's fitting for him to suffer in the same way he's caused others to: this is justice, and Thirty-Two will be the one to enact it. It'll be his one good deed.
It's what soothes him to sleep. The idea of finally serving something good.
Thirty-Two doesn't remember much of his dreams the next morning, only that he'd had them, and that by the time he'd woken up he'd felt heartsick, and his eyes had stung with foreign sadness. What he does remember is the orange fabric that'd felt warm in his tiny, pudgy hands, the skies which had been as green as the grass, and that voice. That voice which spoke in a language Thirty-Two could not understand.
As usual, he sets the dreams to the back of his mind and focuses on the task at hand.
He has two days to prepare for the execution. He will be the one to kill Vegeta, not only known for being the Prince of the Saiyan people, but also for being one of the last men Thirty-Two remembers seeing the night he lost his name.
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The rewritten first chapter of 'Number 32'. I've changed a couple of elements so you may have noticed some differences if you've read the first. I rewrote this a month or so ago and planned on uploading multiple chapters together but honestly, work and studies are kicking my ass so I thought I'd just throw this to the wind. I still have the final chapter of Horse to get out, too (and it's very much on my radar)! I'm posting this now to just show I'm still alive. Thanks for your patience. I hope you enjoy our next venture!