When I come to, it’s dark outside.
I step out of the cave to get some air. Inside, it’s stuffy. Between the taste of smoke that lingers, and the stench of spilt booze, it’s hard to breathe, and I enjoy the cold, biting chill of twilight. I crouch down next to a rock, watch the way my breath fogs in the early morning air, and stare up at the starry sky.
They’re different, the stars. It seems an obvious thought after I have it. Of course they’re different. I’m not even in the same solar system, galaxy, universe anymore. There’s a stab in my chest, and I sigh, bringing a hand up to rub down my face.
Even if there is an Earth out there, it’s not my Earth.
It’s a raw thought, one I’ve tried to ignore. Returning home? At this given moment, it’s a delusion, a pipe dream so far from obtainable that I ignore it outright. And even if the dragonballs exist out there, if I somehow get strong enough to leave planet Plant (planet Vegeta, named after who I am now) how would that work? Oh mighty Shenron, I wish to return from whence I came! Allow me the privilege of the slog that is the day to day grind, so that I can reconnect with my friends and loved ones even though I died. Let me awake in my buried corpse; let me live the life of the Monkey’s Paw.
A snort leaves my lips. What fun. Getting to that point already seems obtuse, but going through the steps? It’s all outright improbable, if not impossible.
Not to mention strange.
There are ways to buffer that, I’m sure. Maybe I could wish for the life that I’d lived, but to change that one day. Or maybe, I can wish for a full on second lease on life, get a brand new start from the day I was born, and go through new motions until the day I die. At that point, though, what’s the point? Shadows play at my feet. Light from the cave dances with the darkness of the night, but it doesn’t keep my attention for long.
If it’s a second chance that I want, then I’ve got one in front of me. Handed to me on a silver platter. It might be filled with war and strife and everything in-between, but if I have to spend all that energy for a shot, then I might as well enjoy the one I currently have. This is something new -- equal parts unknown and known, mixed with almost as much magic -- and I can make anything I want of it.
All I have to do is try.
“It’s just that easy,” I say, stand up, and stretch. With a twist, my back pops and a groan leaves my lips. “It’s always just that easy.”
“What’re you doing out here, Vegeta?”
I turn from the horizon and glance back at Maiz. He walks out the light of the cave, joins me on a rock under the nighttime sky. “Lookin’ for the moon?” he asks. A lopsided grin pulls at his lips. “If that’s the case, you’ve still got a couple years at the earliest. If you really need to know the date, you should ask the captain. He’d probably know.”
Ah, of course. Nappa. There are some feelings there. Frustration, confusion, a bunch of other things I don’t really want to parse through. The big guy disappeared after his speech last night, and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since.
“Makes sense.” And it does. If anyone would know the moment the full moon would rise, it would be the captain. I chew the inside of my lip for a second. “Hey Maiz, can I ask you something?”
He chuckles. “You just did, kid,” he says through the lazy smile that settles on his lips. “But sure, go ahead. Shoot.”
“You never saw Sadala, did you?”
Maiz hums. “Nah, I didn’t,” he says, brings a hand up, and cracks his index finger under his thumb. “I was born on Plant, just like you. My old man used to talk about Sadala from time to time, but I didn’t care, and he’s been dead for years anyways. Never thought much about living in the past.
Why do you ask?”
I don’t say anything at first. Instead, I continue to watch the stars as I think over my next words. It’s a question I answer his query with.
“Well, What does home mean to you?”
Maiz grunts and leans forward. "I don't get it." He coughs, clears the back of his throat, and spits out a wad of crud. "We're home now, right? As long as we’ve got peace from the Tuffles, then we stay here. They start breathing down our necks again, we move, and then that’s our new home. It’s no big deal.”
I offer a nod. "So it's not the cave that's home." I gesture to the entrance. "It's the people." At his confused frown I continue. "Being with the tribe? That's home. The place doesn't matter. The cave itself isn't important." A light laugh comes up. "Y'know, except for the shelter and shit. But we can get that anywhere."
"At the end of the day, all I'm trying to say is that home is what you make of it."
"Yeah," he says, and his head bobs up and down like a drunk trying to keep rhythm, "that makes sense." He rolls his jaw, and I watch the way the shadows twist on his face. "Why does that matter, though?"
He snorts. "You're thinkin' way too hard about this stuff."
Maybe I am. "Yeah, probably," I concede. "But you asked, and that's why: I was thinking about home. Even though we're on Plant, we just sorta live here. We're from Sadala, but it's gone. Fuck, it was destroyed.” I lean further back onto the rock and point to one of the many, nameless stars that dot the sky.
I was thinking about our place."
More like my place. I'm a Saiyan -- my dark hair, tail, and lead lined stomach say as much -- but I'm not just a Saiyan. For more than twenty-five years I'd lived life as a human, and the experiences that made me who I was, who I am, define me more than the week that I've spent here.
But how much does that distinction matter? "I had a chat with Nappa yesterday," I say. Oh boy, what a conversation that'd been. "About me, the celebration, my father -- a lot of things. It's just given me too much to think about, is all." As much as I want to pretend different, the Saiyans are as human as I am. Maybe not by their biology, but they have thoughts, feelings, and goals. It's a concept touched on in the show several times with Vegeta junior, and the way he evolves from monster to man to husband and parent.
Honestly, it brings up a log of questions. From the little I remember about GT, the Saiyans ravage Plant, wipe the Tuffles out, and tear the planet apart in their conquest. How much of that can I attribute to the Saiyans, though? Goku was never that way, Vegeta changed, and both Bardock and Broly are shown to be decent people in Super. That’s not even touching on Universe Six. Is it internal? Are the Saiyans a product of nurture, or is it their nature to destroy?
So many questions, and so few answers.
"Careful how you speak about the captain," Maiz says. His tone comes as casual, but it does carry a note of warning. "I don't really care, but some of the others do. Captain Nappa does a lot for us. If you still want to try and claim the tribe as your own, well... you've still got a long way to go, kid."
What?
My body stiffens, even as my mind moves. Had this been the original idea? Everything plays out before me; my thoughts run wild. It seems plausible, and it makes sense. First step: take control of the tribe. Nappa lives, so maybe Vegeta had simply gotten strong enough to claim the mantle. Might makes right in the world of the Saiyans, and taking control would've positioned him perfectly to put pressure on the others. Unite them. Honest or not, it doesn't really matter, and Vegeta would've been able to point the Saiyans at the Tuffles while he came out on top.
In the end, the Tuffles would fall. Their cities would crumble. And the Saiyans would be left to pick through the ashes of the planet, claim what was left as their own. I've probably missed some things. A piece here or there, but the general idea sounds feasible enough that I doubt I'm too off the mark.
"Oi, Veg, snap out of it."
I blink, turn back to Maiz. "Sorry," I say, sigh, "got caught up in my head there for a second. What was that?"
Maiz stares at me for a minute before he shakes his head. "Bad habit to get into, kid." He reaches into the chest pocket of his furs. Well, it's less an intended pocket, and more a spot where I know he stashes snacks. "It'll get you killed one day."
"Yeah, more than likely."
He scoffs through his smile. "Yeah," he says, pulls something out of his shirt, and tosses it at me, "more than likely."
I catch the small, woven fabric bag and untie the strings that keep it closed. "Well, I know that you lost yours when you got injured," Maiz says, shrugs, and scratches at his shoulder. "It's an older model that I had stashed away somewhere. Figured I wasn't using it, so might as well let you have it."
I stare at the green stained-glass of an early series scouter. It's scuffed, with a deep scratch running nearly the entire length, but as I click the button on the side it lights up. "Are you sure about this, Maiz? I mean, I appreciate it, but you're just gonna give it away?"
"Shut up, kid. After what I heard from Olave, it’s pretty clear that you need all the help you can get." His grin comes back, twice as sharp and thrice as savage. “Besides, you’re almost strong enough to be worth my time.”
Ah, of course. How very Saiyan.
Still, it’s a nice gesture, and I take note of which way the HUD points before affixing it to my left ear. With several clicks, the systems come to life. “Thanks, Maiz,” I say, and I mean it. He waves it off, and the scouter clicks and hums several times as it locks onto him.
2300.
Does that constitute mid-class? Truth be told, I don’t know if the class system exists yet, and I’m not sure if I care. Goku was born the weakest Saiyan in a generation, and he was the one to defeat Freiza. Not the king, not the prince, and not the few members of their race scattered across the galaxy -- but the boy with the lowest power level, sent to the weakest planet. He was the one that came out on top.
Power levels are horseshit. But the class system is liquid horseshit baking on the street in the middle of summer.
“It’s an older model,” Maiz says. He puts his pinky in his ear and twists it around. “So if you wanna do a self-scan, you gotta press the third button on the ear guard.”
I reach up, press the button. The sharp yellow target on Maiz fades, but the HUD continues to flash. It clicks through some numbers, rises further, and blinks several times when it stops climbing.
1070.
Only ten points shy of high-definition. Less than half of Maiz, and several hundred points shy of Raditz. “There’s a couple of other features,” Maiz says. He offers a lazy wave as he jumps down from the rock and turns back to the cave. “Just keep in mind that its visual range is pretty limited, so you won’t be able to catch much until it’s right on top of you.”
I watch Maiz until he disappears back into the cave. What the hell am I supposed to do now? Turning back to the badlands, I notice the smallest amounts of sunlight peeking out over the horizon, and I take in the way the world comes to life.
It breathes. At first, it’s a gust of wind that passes my face. It carries a tune: the shuffle of sand, the muted trills of a bird on the hunt, the cry of an animal in the distance too far away. Saiyans, Tuffles -- who cares? People are people, no matter where you go. They’re equal parts amazing and awful. And right now, indecision seems pointless when the song of adventure calls to me, beckons me to explore this new place I don’t quite call home. The problem of ‘who I am’ can wait until I find out more about ‘where I am’.
I take three steps forward, and my ki ignites around me.
----------------------------------------
Despite the desire to explore, I return to the only other place I know.
The watering hole remains as I left it. Too small to be a lake, too large to be a pond. And even though the irony of the situation isn’t lost on me, there’s something that I want to test.
The wind touseles my hair as I fall from the sky. I push my ki under me in short bursts, slowing my descent. It’s a balancing act. And while I’m not proficient yet, it’s an exercise in control that I can’t wait to improve upon. My knee pushes past soft clay and into stone when I don’t let up enough, and even though the landing hits hard -- too hard, I easily have enough speed to give a regular human a life-ruining injury -- it barely bothers me. A grin pulls at my lips.
There’s potential with ki. Everything I do with it, everything I try, feeds back into itself in new and exciting ways. Improvement calls my name. I’d always been a serial hobbyist before, yet this takes the cake. Music, writing, classic cars -- hell, I’d even had a stent where I’d gotten way too into formal dance.
I’d never been good at everything. Truth be told, most of my hobbies died with nothing more than a passing interest. One or two of them I’d excelled at, a couple of them I’d had enough knowledge to talk about, but most of them burned up in a fire as soon as the next thing caught my attention. I breathe in, push myself up, and reach up to my scouter. It comes to life. A series of beeps and clicks sound off, and several numbers scroll across my HUD.
Regardless, I glance back and forth. No large cats this time.
Good.
Unlike my other interests, ki doesn’t have an end point. It isn’t like that. Now? There are infinite possibilities, each more engaging than the last. The focus of Dragon Ball had always been on fights, huge shonen battles of unmatched scale. Though it doesn’t end there. I recall Dende’s healing, Frieza’s telekinesis, and even moves like the Instant Transmission that have such powerful implications that I can’t stop the excitement that bubbles up under my skin at the thought. My fists clench and unclench, and when my hands are open, my fingers roll on the outside of my leg.
I run my tongue over my lips. The first sun peeks out over the horizon in that awkward transition between twilight and sunrise, and the low light makes spotting threats more difficult than I’d like. But when the scouter stops, displays a myriad of incredibly low numbers, I breathe a bit easier. My mind buzzes with anticipation.
This place is perfect.
I walk over to a large rock just above the water’s surface and sit down. My legs cross, my eyes close, and I lean forward with my arms in my lap. I utter a silent prayer, and I hope that whatever part of me remembers being Vegeta comes forward to lend a helping hand.
Everything fades. First, the noise. It all turns to static in the back of my mind before it disappears entirely. The smell and taste of the desert air follows. Concentration comes easier than before. The feel of the rock beneath me vanishes, until there’s nothing left.
There’s only me.
As I’ve learned, ki is a muscle. It flexes just like any other group in the body. I don’t approach it with the same panic as before, or the cautious excitement that I want to feel. An elusiveness greets me. Like water with oil, it evades my grasp.
That’s okay. I breathe in through my nose. For a brief moment, I wonder if this is the difference between the Saiyans and the Humans at the start of the series. Ki, and the way it’s controlled, seems like an almost alien concept to Raditz, Nappa, And Vegeta when they land on Earth. The Earthlings (and even more so, the Namekians) display an unparalleled mastery over related concepts. But after the former two Saiyans perish, and the latter ‘masters’ it off-screen, technique over power becomes an almost antiquated concept. The thought dies as quick as it comes.
There’s plenty of time to focus on the wrong things later. I release the breath I’m holding, and I reach once more towards the pool of my own power.
It’s different from flying or fighting or anything physical I’ve done so far. The energy within myself gives, ebbs, and flows. It isn’t some hard, rigid and unyielding thing. But instead, it acts like a living organism. It reacts. And this time, when I take hold of it, I pull a part of it away. Slowly, I open my eyes, look down at my hands, and smile.
“The power of the sun, in the palm of my hand.”
A soft yellow orb of concentrated light hovers in front of my face. It rests just above my fingers, so close I’m almost touching it. Heat radiates from it, and it blankets the water below me in a soft, passive glow.
It’s beautiful.
A couple of seconds pass before I notice the thin stream of energy leaving me to keep the ki blast steady. A trickle, so shallow that I barely notice it leave my reservoir. I hold my hand out in front of me, marvel at the way the ball stays just out of reach, and push against it with my internal power.
I point. Adjust my aim. Fire.
It flies. When it impacts the rocks on the opposite side of the river, they explode. Pebbles break from boulders, and a large crater forms in the middle of the largest rock while the two smaller ones roll into the shallow water. A whistle leaves my lips. Slow, steady, and long enough for my short circuiting brain to catch back up. It looks like dynamite. Or, well, any explosive, really. But I can’t help the immediate comparison to old American western movies, where actors had tossed explosive sticks in quarries to blow the rubble away. Despite all that, there’s one thought at the forefront of my mind.
That had only been a fraction of my power.
It’s a bit daunting. And a part of me -- the monkey-brained, hard wired Saiyan -- chafes that I got this strong without any work. I dismiss the feeling as quick as it comes.
If anything, I’ll need all the help I can get.
The first sun comes halfway up the horizon. A hum leaves my lips, and I reach up to the scouter to click through several settings. Wait, what the hell? Words and numbers and data pass by in flashes of yellow. All of this information, and I can’t find a single way to tell the damn time; who the hell designs a face-locking smartphone without a clock widget?
I spit on the ground, roll my shoulders, and stretch. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. It seems like an hour or so has passed, and I’ve got plenty more time before the morning is over. I glance down at the water, watch the small waves caused by my attack lap at the shore.
Well, guess it's time for round two.
This time, I stare at the rock. I reach for the same feeling again, but instead of tearing off a small piece, I grab a much more substantial chunk. It's blue, instead of yellow. Larger than before. And it continues to grow in my hand, like a balloon with too much air, until it's twice the size of a basketball instead of the baseball I'd thrown previously.
A frown pulls at my face. "No, that's not quite right," I say. Focusing on the power in my hand, I push down on it with my ki. It doesn't move. I roll my jaw, snap my neck from side to side, and force it down. With a harder push, it complies, and it tightens to the size of a softball. Sweat beads at my brow. I gasp, release the breath I hadn't realized I was holding in.
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I point. Adjust my aim. Fire.
It tears through the rock. Melts it down to slag, and pushes out the other side in a fraction of a second. It doesn't stop there. The earth gives way. The nameless attack tears a trench into the ground for twenty feet.
It destabilizes. Explodes. And as a slight tremor shakes the earth, as the water splashes in erratic waves much higher than before, I stare at the small crater my attack leaves. I jump over, crouch down, and inspect it. The hole is deeper than it is wide -- maybe ten feet, or so -- and as impressive as it is, I can’t help but feel something other than excitement makes itself known. I exhale, ghost my fingers across the burned bits of earth.
Am I... disappointed?
That makes sense, in a weird, round-about way. The first fight in canon DBZ -- between Raditz, Goku and Piccolo -- displayed moves from both parties that nixed mountains. Reduced them to ash. Raditz was stronger than me. Not by a ton, but he gets the benefit of the doubt. Piccolo and Goku, though? They were less than half my current power level.
Is this the epitome of 'I'm smarter than you, stronger than you, better than you', but for Saiyans? I blew up more than you.
A snort leaves my lips. God, I sure hope not.
"Ki control matters that much, huh?" Nothing answers, sans the wildlife near the water that the blast stirred up. That's okay. I already know the truth.
Control bridges the gap between men and monsters. Even Krillin, despite his lower level of strength, threatens giants like Nappa. Hell, he almost snipes Frieza. The Destructo Disk, Tri-Beam -- even the Kaio-ken all help cover the distance, turn the odds from unwinnable to obtainable. Some of them have greater costs to the wielder. Side effects: up to, and including, death. But when you're playing with stakes like all of humanity, the risk is worth it.
Probably. Eh, maybe if you squint.
I sigh, reach back up to my scouter, and press the button to trigger an area scan. It goes through the same series of beeps, stops on an empty display. No threat readings, no warnings.
There's nothing. I'm alone. Only the wind, sand, and stone keep me company.
"This is some Piccolo loner shit," I say, laugh at myself a little. I twist my back until it pops and roll my shoulders. "Actual demon activity." I snort, bring my hand up to my face, and pinch the bridge of my nose.
The pun sucks. Actually awful. And as lame as it is, demon king activity sounds much worse.
But training out here does make sense. It's a recurring thought: the harshness of the environment yields better results. And while a partner might be preferable, explaining the awkwardness of why I don't remember how to throw ki blasts can wait. First, the basics. I'll have to get a handle on concepts from the show. Afterwards, I can ask Zorn or Maiz or even Nappa for a spar.
But that comes later. I push myself back up to standing, stare down at my open hand. Another ball forms. Yellow again, instead of blue, but half the size of the last two. I toss it. Without waiting for it to strike my target rock, I prepare and shoot a second blast.
I don't give it enough focus. Concentration. It lacks form, and as the first attack connects, blasts the target apart, the second one fizzles out in the air and explodes. The attack is weak, and even the wind that blows towards me is more of a gust than a gale.
Guess it isn't that easy. I chew the inside of my cheek, wince when the taste of iron floods my mouth, and stare at the rising sun. It's a deep red. The ruby color of blood. “I’ll keep this up until I see the second sun,” I say. The words are my hype tactic, to keep myself accountable. “Then I’ll see what else I can find.”
I point. Adjust my aim. Fire.
----------------------------------------
One of my fingers breaks under the force of a bad blast. Three of them, along with my palm on my left hand, get scorched. Burned. Covered in blisters. They throb, the wounds in my back ache, and I gasp for breath in fast, needy gasps as I sit in the pond and submerge my arms. It’d be nice to lay down, soak in the cool, fresh water, but the bandages packed into my back worry me just enough that I decide not to test my luck.
It doesn’t stop the satisfied smile that pulls at my lips.
Everything hurts. In a good way. And it’s a reminder of my growth, of the things that I’ve learned in the past several hours. My muscles might smart, but I’ve done this song and dance before; they tear down, and I’ll be all the stronger for it when they rebuild in the future.
I lean back against a boulder lodged in the shallower water and stare down at my injured hand. A sigh leaves my lips. I’d thrown a final ki attack after I’d already pushed past my limits, and it backfired. Literally.
Now I’ll have to let it serve as a reminder. Limits exist for a reason, and as much as shonen anime tries to teach people to blow past them, it isn’t that easy. Getting stronger requires a lot more than throwing myself at this problem. Hard work, dedication -- it’s built on the back of smart thinking, planning, and while drive is important to execution, it’s only a part of the bigger picture.
I knew this. I knew this and I still let it blow up in my face.
Oh well. No use crying about spilt milk. I pull my elbow in until my shoulder pops, grunting when the tightness fades. My hand can serve as a gentle reminder. For now. Later one I’ll be able to look at every ki blast I throw and think of how much I used to suck ass at it.
“Vegeta, are you there?”
I blink and reach up to my scouter. Pressing the communication button on the side, feedback cracks to life. “Vegeta here,” I say, stand, and make my way back to my furs on the shore. “Who is this?”
“This is Zorn,” the voice replies, “Checking in with you. Maiz said he had given you a scouter, and I was making sure you had coms up and running. Have you had contact with the captain?”
His voice sounds as dry as the desert air. “Negative,” I say, trying not to laugh. Negative? Really? This isn’t a military drama, but it might be funny to treat it as one. “Haven’t seen him since last night. Might be better to ask someone else, if you can.”
A snort. “I have asked everyone else. You were the only one I had not yet contacted.”
“Then no,” I say, “Haven’t seen him.”
Zorn pauses. “If you hear from him, contact me on this line.” There’s another sound from his side. The yell of another person, perhaps? “Understood?”
I getcha,” I say. My brow raises into my hairline when the line drops dead. “Holy shit, what an ass.” Part of me hopes he can hear me, and I reach up to switch the coms back off. With a flare of my power, a push of my ki, the water on me flies away in a spray of mist, and I grab my clothes to throw them back on. Staring out at the horizon, I watch the way the river twists and turns into the distance.
The wind calls my name. It whispers in sandy flurries that pass, sings to me in a tune of silent challenge. ‘I wait,’ it says, taunting me as if it knows I’ll rise to meet it. And like the sucker I am, I take the bait.
Well, I did want to explore.
I reach up to scratch my back, careful of the gauze packed into my shoulders. If my hands remind me of the dangers a lack of concern can cause, the holes in my shoulders remind me that planet Plant is dangerous in and of itself. It seems like such an obvious thought. Not only is it the current home of the Saiyans, but it’s the native home of the Tuffles: a highly advanced, intelligent race composed of some of the brightest minds in the galaxy.
Who are also the antithesis of the Saiyans.
There’s a lot of lore there. History. And honestly, outside of the little dashes that I remember from GT, there’s more unknown than known. Little of it’s good. King Vegeta unites the Saiyans -- through the means I surmised earlier, or some other way entirely -- and uses the full moon that comes out once every hundred years to destroy Tuffle civilization. It gets a singular arc in a sequel spinoff show that they tried to bury with Super, and outside of exactly Baby, none of this shit ever even comes up. None of it matters. Planet Vegeta pops up a couple of times as a joke in Super, one more time in the Broly movie that retcons Bardock, and then it fades away, back into wiki obscurity.
I pull my arms across my chest one at a time, grunt when the left one pops. How long do I have until the full moon; when does Frieza arrive; what timeline am I even in -- I have question after question, but no answers. At the end of the day, they all loop back into the same thought.
It doesn’t matter. You’re not strong enough, anyways. Do not pass go. Do not collect two-hundred dollars.
I’ll need to get stronger, then. That’s something I’ve been working on. The penultimate goal -- right below not dying on the list of importance -- but it’s a bit of a tricky balancing act. I have a role in the society that I’m in. I’m a hunter. And to hunt effectively, to maximize the amount of time that I can spend figuring out what I can do, I need to know the land.
It’s an immediate goal that’ll keep me busy enough. I can find the forests that Nappa spoke of, maybe a large lake or ocean (if they even have those here) for fish, and then I’ll have more time to dedicate every day to training. With the makings of a plan in mind, I stare off into the distance and come to a decision.
I accept the challenge offered, and I rise to meet the land itself.
It starts with a step. One foot after the other. I place my hands on the back of my head, careful of my bad fingers, and start walking. There’s some edible grasses and herbs along the banks that I’d missed prior. Or, well, I assume they’re herbs. Even out here in the middle of a space desert, a plant that looks eerily similar to oregano somehow pops up. It’s not exactly what I’m looking for, but I file it away for later. Who knows, it could matter.
The slower pace is nice. I’m tired from training, but far from exhausted. Yet it doesn’t take long for the thrill of the sky to call my name.
I speed up. Start to jog a bit. Light gusts of wind tousle my hair, and the heat itself isn’t uncomfortable. It bothers me less than I’m used to. And I’m unsure if it’s my Saiyan biology, or if it’s an after-effect of ki.
Double suns still suck though, and my tolerance is a far cry from immunity.
When the first beads of sweat roll off my brow, I jump into the air. My ki flares. It’s not as natural as breathing, but it’s a lot closer to second nature after some training and a couple of near death experiences. I clear a quarter of a hundred feet before my aura snaps to life, and I take off, conscious of the river that I still follow.
The land passes by in streaks of browns and whites with splashes of red. It’s a painting: half finished and left out in the suns to dry, bleached to look harsh and hateful.
But it isn’t.
There’s life there, making due in its own way. It might be marred by the desert heat, by the air that’s heavier than that of earth, but it’s there all the same. Plants -- dried grasses, cacti, even a type of tree that bears some sort of fruit -- dot the landscape. Animals, predators and prey, do the same. I reach up to my scouter, press for a scan, and chuckle when some of the small creatures scurry into the sand when they see me. The highest number I see is ten. It comes from a small, woodlands style creature that looks eerily similar to the fictitious jackalope: two feet tall, with the body of a rabbit and the rack of a deer.
Somehow, it’s stronger than the average human.
I breathe in, flex, and adjust my speed.
Earlier, when I’d first tried flight, I’d stayed close to one-hundred percent off the bat. And while I’d gotten a taste for controlling my height, power-output, and velocity, it’s far from mastered. First, I push. Then after a bit of breakneck pace, I slow down to the point where I’m almost floating.
It’s easier to see this way. I can check my surroundings, and it’s how I spot several other interesting species. Like a snake, coiled up, basking in the sun. Or the large scorpion, over two feet long, that stalks from the top of a rock nearby. It strikes. And it’s able to cut the snake down with its pincers and claim its hard fought meal. There are some small mammals, a handful of birds of prey, and even some strange, quadrupedal reptile that looks more like a cat than a lizard.
They’re interesting. But that’s all they are: curiosities. They’re too weak to hunt for sport, too small to hunt for food. A tribe of Saiyans waits back home, and it’d take two fully-grown jagumear for them to feast for an evening. None of it had gone to waste.
I pause and recall a short man with a scarred-face chewing on organs this morning before I’d left. It was a bit strange, but this isn’t the bountiful twenty-first century.
More like I’m living in the stone ages.
I snort, flare my ki, and continue upriver. Sights come and go. Wind passes by. And for the longest time, I don’t find anything except for sand and stone.
Until the green appears.
It’s a forest. Lush, vibrant, teeming with life that the rest of the badlands lack. The canopy reaches high into the sky with fingers of twisted roots, and dense foliage expands to both sides of the horizon, stretching on as far as my eyes can see. My breath catches, and I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face.
This is it! Exactly what I’d wanted to find. My heart pumps, faster and faster, and I run my tongue on the inside of my lips. When I had first thought of an adventure, this is what I’d had in mind.
I let up on my ki, drop down in front of the trees as I draw near. It’s a bit absurd up close. A clear line exists where the land goes from dying to thriving, and the shift on my feet from hard rock and loose sand to tall grass makes me laugh. It tickles, even as it catches me off guard. I place my hand on the trunk of the tree in front of me, hum as I look up to the top of its crown.
“No way this is real,” I say, bringing one hand up to test the bark. It’s thick, dense, but it sounds and feels natural when I tap my knuckles against it.
If it looks like a tree, smells like a tree, and feels like a tree -- well, I guess it’s a tree.
“How the hell did the Tuffles manage this?” I ask, wonder aloud. Snorting through my nose, I spit onto the ground. There’s an answer. Somewhere, I’m sure. And I guarantee in the textbook that references this phenomenon, there’s a million different sci-fi terms. An explanation that starts with bull and ends with shit. I tear off a piece of the bark and marvel at the way it naturally crumbles when I rub it.
It’s so real, trying so hard in its authenticity, that it can only be fake.
Nothing genuine needs this much effort.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I take my first steps. Ambiance greets me. The large trees up above block out the sun, but enough light trickles through the canopy that it’s still easy to see. A new world greets me. Shrubs, bushes, small little trees that pepper the forest floor. I hop onto a large, decaying log and take everything in.
There are birds. They chirp, call out between one another, but I don’t see them. I inhale, enjoy the earthy scent of sap so much more alive than the desert, and taste the soft notes of the wilds on my tongue. It all screams real.
Even though it’s so clearly not.
Unease settles in my stomach. But as strong as the feeling is, I ignore it. Ten minutes pass. When nothing happens, and my scouter doesn’t detect anything substantial nearby, I stand and make my way over to a berry bush that I’d noticed. Crouching down, I inspect the wild, red and blue fruit hanging heavy from its branches. No, that isn’t quite right. There’s a second bush, growing from the second one, twisted in a way that only nature can replicate, and its berries are blue. The older, more weathered branches all carry the red ones.
I grab a handful, toss them into my mouth. Sweetness pops. My eyes widen a bit, and I’m caught flat-footed at the strong burst of flavor. They’re good. Very good, and I pick a handful of them before making my way further into the forest.
Twenty minutes pass. I flick through settings on my scouter, and while I can’t find a clock, there is a stopwatch. I set it, watch the way it clicks up. The berries don’t last long, and I chew the final few as I continue onwards.
I stop at a decaying tree. The top of it lacks life, and there’s a sharp char line that runs down its length. At first I think it’s lightning, but I walk up, rub my hand against it. Now, I’m not so sure.
It reminds me of the marks left by a ki attack.
There’s a difference. From what I remember of my childhood, when lightning had torn through the large oak tree on my grandparents farm, it had burned. Scorch marks defined it as much as the split wood had. But this? This looks like the same melting after effect that I’ve stared at for the past several hours, and it sets me on edge.
I reach up, click my scouter. Still nothing. It’s not surprising. The marks themselves look old, and I doubt I’d have noticed if I hadn’t been curious. I exhale through my nose, breathe in through my mouth, and keep going.
The third time my stop-watch cycles, the ground shakes.
Something is up ahead. I check it on my scouter, and when it detects several power levels, I chew my cheek. They’re unsubstantial. But they range from thirty to shy of one-hundred, and they’re the largest I’ve seen. Well, outside of myself and Maiz.
Is it a humble brag to acknowledge that? Fuck, it doesn’t matter. I turn to walk away, and another light tremor shakes the earth again.
What the hell is that?
I get an idea. A bad idea. A terribly awful, very bad idea. Practicality and curiosity war within me. Curiosity wins. I know it’s stupid, top five dumbest things I’ve done, but I slink forward like a cat anyways. There’s a clearing up ahead. Leaning back against a tree, I reach up and mute my scouter before taking a safe look.
An entire group stands around. They look like mooks, geared out with riot gear. Several have heavy vests on, sleek helmets, or guns slung over their shoulders. They stand around chatting, taking the piss. But as interesting as they are, none of them compare to the three, large robots: almost ten feet of polished metal with large bodies, short legs, and arms that almost touch the ground. Two of them stand at the back, and one of them has two, large animal carcasses slung over each shoulder.
Ah, it’s a hunting party. I exhale and step back towards the dense foliage. I’ve had enough near death (and actual death) experiences for one week, thank you very much. A snort leaves my lips. As of right now, I’m perfectly content to ignore any and all Tuffles I come across.
Except the one I come face to face with.
He stares at me from some bushes, mouth agape. Shit, the last time I’d seen a mouth that wide open, it had a hook in it. I can’t see his eyes or much of his face -- his helmet covers both -- but I catch the way his body trembles. With one hand pointing a shaky finger at me, and the other wrapped around his half-down pants, I can only assume he’d stepped away to piss.
This is just my luck.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” I say, raise my hands, and back away from him. “I’m going to walk away; you’re going to stay quiet. This doesn’t have to end poorly.” My scouter locks onto him, and I catch his reading.
12.
No fucking wonder I didn’t notice him earlier. After I’d seen the initial readings in the clearing, I’d assumed the low thirties would’ve been the weakest.
Clearly, I shouldn’t have assumed.
I watch the way his Adam's apple bobs. He’s nervous. Shit, I’m nervous too. But he takes my advice, nods, and lowers his hand. “Okay, good,” I say, taking a couple steps to the left. I try to keep an equal amount of distance between us, so that he doesn’t get jumpy.
“What’s your name, guy?” The words come out before I can stop them. It’s part nerves and part a knee-jerk reaction. Maybe if I can get him talking, he’ll calm down a little.
His mouth falls open again before it snaps shut. He stutters, “Durian, sir.” Ah, hell. I take another slow step to the left, position myself so that he’s between me and the clearing, and I keep my hands positioned in a way that I hope is placating.
The Tuffle is just a kid.
Now that everyone is taller than me, I hadn’t noticed his height. There’s no way he clears five feet. His shorter stature, his lower power level, his higher voice -- what the hell kind of hunting party is this? If Tuffles are closer to Humans than Saiyans, he can’t be more than twelve years old.
“Alright, Durian, here’s how this is going to work.” I take a slow step backwards. “Watch my feet, and do what I do.” Another step. “You’ll get back to your party, I’ll get far enough away that you won’t have to worry about me. Then, I’ll make a break for it.”
He shakes his head fast enough that I think he might get whiplash. I take another step back, and he goes to mirror it.
The dumbass trips. He steps on his own pulled-down pants, falls to the ground, and screams.
Fuck. You gotta be kidding me.
“Saiyan? Saiyan!”
There’s a call from the clearing. Blaster fire follows. It streaks out in erratic waves. Some shots come close, and some fly in random directions.
Some get close to the kid.
I don’t think. My legs move, surge forward, and I slap away a shot that would’ve hit him. Only after I’ve picked him up with the bridge of my foot, sling him forward like a ball, do I realize what I’m doing.
My aura flares to life. Another blast whistles past my head. I ignore it. WIth a grunt, I push off the ground, and make my way into the canopy above.
Branches snap against my arms, my chest, my face. None of them hurt. Another shot sails past. Fuck. Where the fuck did I go wrong? A single sigh leaves my lips, and I can’t help but wonder if this is a streak of bad luck or if it’s one, continual broad stroke.
Or maybe, I’m just dumb as a rock and had no business being here in the first place.
I blow past the treetops with ease and keep going. “Don’t stop,” I whisper under my breath, “Don’t give them time to catch up.” I ignore the view, the scenery, and the sounds of chaos below. Flaring my ki, I push as hard as I can back toward the badlands.
Another robot rises out of the canopy. It’s not even five hundred feet away, and it waits. Shit. I break right. "Shit shit shit!" The words tumble from my lips, and I suck in a sharp breath when an energy blast flies by. I glance back, notice two of the borgs from earlier, and push harder to keep them from gaining on me.
"Stop, you're flying in restricted airspace! Land and submit to questioning or prepare to be shot down! You will not receive another warning shot.”
I think on it for two entire seconds before I barrel-roll away from another pure, concentrated ball of heat that comes close enough to singe my furs, fills my nose with the acrid stance of burning hair. I release a breath as it passes by. But even though I breathe easy, I push all the harder, fly all the faster.
Wait, what the hell happened to a warning shot?
"If you continue, you will be considered a hostile and treated as such. Land now!”
I take a dive. I swing back below the surface of the canopy, dip between several branches, and reach up to the communication button on my scouter. Static cracks to life in my ear, drowns out the blood roaring in my ears.
"Veggie, is that you?" I expect Zorn or Maiz. Maybe even Olave. But it’s the captain's voice that comes to life over the line as I touch down onto the forest floor. I can hear the smug bastard's grin. "What'd ya' screw up this time?"
It’s as if last night didn’t even happen.
Ignore it. Focus on the now. I dash into the foliage, duck under another shot. “I got into some trouble with some Tuffles. Half a dozen hunters, some robots, etcetera.” I try to keep the panic out of my voice, hide behind a tree, and whisper into my earpiece, “Feel free to send some help if you want.”
Nappa laughs. "Sure, kid," he says between chuckles. "Just try not to clean house by the time I make it there. Maiz, you're on standby."
The line dies. For a second, I think my chances do too. In the clearing I'd just dropped into, I hear the heavy footfalls of one of the robots as it lands. Hell, I can feel them. Slight tremors shake the earth beneath me. And with one final step, the borg stops, and the tell-tale hum of a blaster charge breaks the silence its stilled movements make. One thought crosses my mind.
Scouters are Tuffle tech.
On pure instinct, I jump away, and my arm comes up to slap away the energy bolt aimed for my head. The attack flies through the distance, cuts through a couple of trees before it detonates.
Holy shit. That could've been me. I take a couple of heavy, gasping breaths -- not because I'm tired, but because my asshole puckered hard enough to tie my sphincter in knots. The robot levels its hand at me; motes of yellow come together to charge the next attack.
"Resistance is futile, Saiyan." The voice sounds shill, high, sharp like a noise run through too many modifiers as a joke. "Drop any weapons you have, surrender yourself, and prepare to die.”
"Don't you mean or prepare to die?" I glance left and right, bring my arms into a loose stance that feels natural.
"I know what I said."
As I stare down the barrel of the space gun, I have one thought.
Does this constitute a hate-crime?