Chapter 5: interlude 1

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Nappa dwells on the past more than he looks towards the future.

He thinks of his home, of planet Sadala. Of the days when he was young and spry instead of old and weary, and when Lord Vegeta II – just Vegeta junior, at the time – had named him as captain of the guard. He and his brother had come from nothing, had been nothing, and it had been the greatest honor of his life to kneel before the man he respected above all and to take his oaths before people that thought they were his betters. Those had been good times, and Nappa finds himself longing for them more and more.

But his reality, his day to day, isn't nearly as pleasant. Since the fall of planet Sadala, he's struggled. First, when infighting tore the planet apart; and then again after they'd arrived, when his brother had fled with Borgos, and Paragas had said he'd had enough. The departure of their science division still stings, but it was the departure of Shugesh that hurt more.

None of it compares to the death of Lord Vegeta.

Nappa releases a heavy sigh, stares down at the scars across the back of his knuckles. His scouter buzzes again, no doubt Zorn trying to get in touch, and he silences it before it can ring a second time. He huffs and stands, looking out at the planet's surface from atop the plateau he'd made only hours prior. It'd been a mountain once. Now, it isn't.

Sometimes things are that simple. He'd wanted something done, so he’d done it.

More things should be that simple.

The twin suns beam down from their respective spots in the sky, and the dust in the air sticks to his teeth like the taste of saltwater. He thinks of Maiz, of Korn – the man's recently deceased father – but he thinks of his charge most of all. He thinks of Vegeta III: the young man who's practically his own son, and who's equal parts a stranger.

Truly, he's failed in his last mission given by Lord Vegeta. Nappa recalls the man's face, twisted in a rictus of pain, as he'd reached up to the hole in his chest that went clear through his back. Despite everything, the man had smiled. Blood had pooled in his jaw and poured down his chin, but he'd stood tall and faced his death like a warrior. Like a Saiyan. There had been no resignation, no regret. And when Lord Vegeta had fought the Mad Titan, he'd done so smiling.

A grin pulls at Nappa’s lips. Just remembering it gives him chills, and for the longest time, he’d thought that a death that glorious defined a Saiyan’s legacy. Growing old and gray was for weaker races, like the Tuffles.

Now? He isn’t so sure.

Nappa doesn’t regret living. He’d already been old long before Vegeta had died. But he’d been set in his ways, and after his chief’s passing, he found himself doing things he’d never thought about before. Leading a tribe, raising a child, trying to provide. All he’d ever done before was break things with his hands, his fists, and sometimes his face. It’s a different experience, one that he had wanted nothing to do with for the longest time.

Yet his people still needed him. Problems didn’t disappear because he wanted them to. No, he’d learned the hard way that if he ignored something long enough, it would only get worse. Like the rat infestation he’d left alone that one time, issues of magnitude always return, bigger and meaner and hungrier than they once were.

After some time. After days, months, years passed, he’d come to realize something that he’d missed prior.

Pride in prowess, in combat ability matters to a warrior.

Pride in the strength of many, of power beyond just your own, matters to a commander.

Pride in the accomplishments of those that follow you, that look up to you, turn to you for support -- that matters most to a leader.

It’s something new that he dwells on now. Even as his scouter flashes through numbers lower than one-hundred, he thinks about Shugesh, and how he’d left because Lord Vegeta hadn’t cared about such things. It was a mistake that Nappa had mirrored.

At least, until recently.

An incoming request once more rings in his left ear. He expects Zorn. If there’s one man in the history of the Saiyan race that can’t take a hint -- or just doesn’t care, Nappa isn’t sure which -- it’s his right hand man. His eyes flick up to the connection ID, and a hum leaves his lips. He might not know everyone’s individual number chains by heart, but he’s ignored Zorn’s pestering enough to be able to spit those digits from rote memory.

In fairness, Nappa thinks that everyone who uses a scouter could do the same with Zorn’s contact.

But those aren’t Zorn’s numbers.

So he thinks on it for a second or two. He brings his palm to meet the knuckles of his other hand and pushes down, cracks them like the shell of a nut before he remembers where he knows that string from. ‘Those aren’t Maiz’s’ he thinks, working his tongue against his teeth, ‘but it’s Korn’s old signature, and Maiz had used that old first generation scouter for a while. At least, until he’d earned his own.’

That’s where he recognizes it from. ‘Who the hell is it, then?’ The last time Maiz had used that old thing had been before his final growth spurt, and there’s a near zero percent chance he’d pick it up again unless he had to. But it was his old man’s, and even though the two of them had more differences than sand and water, they were still kin. Maiz wouldn’t just give one of the last mementos of his father away.

Or would he?

‘If it was to Vegeta,’ he thinks, snorts, and spits on the ground. Releasing a sigh, Nappa pushes himself up to stand. ‘And only to Vegeta.’

“Veggie, is that you?” He asks, clicking through on the coms channel. His grin sharpens enough to shave hairs when a funny thought crosses his mind. “What'd ya' screw up this time?”

The line is silent. For a second or two, Nappa wonders if he’s pissed the kid off. His concern goes unworried; static cracks to life. “I got into some trouble with some Tuffles,” Vegeta says, and the way he tries to sound calm almost makes Nappa bust a gut. Kid is shitting buckets. “Half a dozen hunters, some robots, etcetera.”

“Feel free to send some help if you want.”

This time he does laugh. “Sure, kid,” he says between chuckles, “just try not to clean house by the time I make it there.” Nappa pauses, takes a second to address the other person listening in, even if they haven’t spoken. “Maiz, you're on standby.” He kills the line before anyone offers a response. Setting his scouter to only detect power levels above one-thousand, Nappa charges his energy and takes off towards the forests.

He pushes, flies through the air, and keeps an eye out for threats. Yellow clicks by in his left eye. Maiz and Zorn both ding on the scouter, but they’re not his targets. ‘Kid must be in pretty deep,’ he thinks. There’s not so much as a blip on his radar so far, so Nappa looks down to the planet’s surface, watches the way the undetected predators and prey both hide and cower as he blazes past. ‘Good,’ he thinks. A grin pulls at his lips.

‘Let them hide.’

If this was a normal day, they’d be part of his mid-morning meal. Today isn’t normal, though, so they’ll get another chance. Maybe sometime in the distant future he’ll return, and then he can fight anything worth fighting or eat anything worth eating. Several minutes pass, and eventually, when the sand and dirt gives way to grass and root, when the trees of the forest arrive on the horizon, Vegeta’s power level registers.

1070.

Nappa’s eyebrows climb a little higher at the reading. Wind whips against his face, and as he passes over the first set of trees, his lips part in a feral grin.

Not even a week since his recovery, and the brat has already gone up fifty points.

“The kid’s a natural,” he says, keeping an eye on the lock. Nappa adjusts his course by a hair’s breadth, pivots in the air, and picks up his pace towards Jambul City. Even at the speed he’s going, and with the scouter settings he has, once or twice he’s able to make out movement below the canopy line. Soldiers in bright yellow ballistic gear and mech suits run around on the forest floor.

He snorts. Saiyan sightings this close to the city happen. Shit, he’s run into Tuffle patrols before, but he’s never seen a reaction this severe despite his reputation. But for things to get this bad, for the pot to get stirred this hard?

What the hell did the kid do?

A blast strikes his back. If anything, it feels closer to an insect bite from back home than an actual attack. It makes him pause. He doesn’t slow down, but he does glance back, whistles when the sunlight catches against the shiny armor of the hunter drones on his trail. Another shot flies past his head. It’s weak, holds so little heat that it can’t even singe his mustache hair. More peppering blasts follow, but Nappa is too busy counting heads to dodge, too busy laughing to care.

Why bother moving away when they don’t hurt? Nappa counts seven bots before he stops and decides it doesn’t matter.

He smirks, raises a hand, and points two fingers.

The world erupts in blinding light.

The air itself shimmers, explodes, and fire ignites from nothing. The attack caves in, swallows itself before it expands outwards, and bathes the forest below in the color of the setting sun. The ground shakes. And when the smoke clears, there’s nothing left. The tops of the trees are gone, along with the mechs, and there’s no trace that they were ever there at all.

“So much for an open casket.” Nappa chuckles, laughs at his own joke. He rolls his neck from side to side, feels the satisfying pop of his joints, and shifts his jaw when his scouter makes some noise. The target lock flashes several times, and the numbers start to shift.

“Wait, what?” He asks, though the only answer he receives comes from the canopy below. Several more shots erupt from the trees. Some strike him, too weak to get his attention, but most whiz past into nothing. “Is that the kid’s reading?”

It takes him a second to realize that it is. The number, once static, now climbs higher. It blows past 1100, tears through 1200, and keeps going up. Nappa preps another blast, throws it down below, but he never takes his eye away from the number on his scouter. He never shifts his focus.

It’s as if there’s nothing else. Only the scouter, the reading, and its meaning matter. A couple of seconds pass, and the number settles.

1550.

“What the fuck?” Nappa reaches up and clicks for a second scan. Fluctuation isn’t exactly uncommon, but a near forty percent jump in power is unheard of -- especially when he’d seen the kid go up not even one-hundred points the day before, during the fight for his life against an ancient jagumear and her child. For a minute, he thinks it’s broken. A snort leaves his lips, and he dismisses the idea as quick as it comes. The thing is premium Tuffle tech. It’s never so much as lags, and he can still see both Maiz and Zorn’s power levels. Neither have so much as flinched.

Meaning the kid is the only outlier.

Nappa ignites his power once more and continues through the sky. He presses the button for coms. “Maiz, make some noise. Not sure what the kid did, but the Tuffles are out in full force.”

Maiz offers a sharp, “Aye, Captain” -- and the line goes dead.

The scouter starts up again. But instead of rising, the kid’s power level starts to drop. The yellow number falls further and further, until it settles back down at its original 1070 reading. A heavy breath leaves his nose in a harsh exhale.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he thinks. ‘Is there something wrong with my equipment?’ The shit seems bugged. Or, maybe, there’s something else. Something that he’s missing.

He isn’t sure. Truthfully, that bothers him more than he likes.

Green passes below him in vibrant streaks that he’d never have seen back on Sadala, but he pays it little mind. In the distance, where his target lock points, there’s a smoking crop of fallen trees. It’s a battleground, a recent one, and he’s curious what move the kid had pulled for a blastzone like this.

“Didn’t think he had something that could get this big." They’re his own words, and Nappa doesn’t realize he’s spoken them until he catches sight of Vegeta on the ground. He looks worse for wear, worse than the time he’d mouthed off to Zorn, and if not for the device on Nappa’s face that zeroes in on his signature, Nappa wouldn’t be able to tell if the kid is still breathing.

If there’s a silver lining, it’s that, he supposes. At least he knows that the kid is still alive.

He reaches up to his scouter. “Don’t tell me you got smeared by some third rate trash like this,” he says, watching the hunter adjust its blaster. When it locks onto him, a smirk cuts his face. “If I found out that you did, I’m going to spend the week after you recover kicking your ass.”

He waits for a response with baited breath. And when he hears a soft, “good luck,” from the kid, he smirks.

Now, the bot has his full attention.

Nappa moves. The wind screeches in protest as he nears his target. There’s a moment of realization, where the pilot of the robot swivels the metal body just enough to try and adjust the blaster. But by that time, it’s already too late.

Glass shatters around his arm as he reaches into the cockpit. The man inside lets out a startled cry. It doesn’t change a thing. Nappa grabs the pilot’s throat and squeezes, crushing it with an ironclad grip. There’s a sound, a noise the man makes, like a whistling, broken instrument as he gasps for air.

Nappa grins as he yanks the pilot from his seat, chuckles as the shards of glass tear ribbons in the man's skin, and outright laughs as he throws the poor sod to the forest floor. In a moment, there’s some arm waving. A bit of struggling. Perhaps he's begging for his life. Nappa can’t tell. Hell, it might be some form of music the man’s shattered windpipe makes, but it sounds like shit, and Nappa’s smile turns savage as he stomps on the Tuffle’s head.

He glances at the girl on the ground, who has tears streaming down the exposed side of her blue face, and he wonders if she's next.

She certainly seems to think so.

After another quick look around the destroyed clearing, Nappa takes a couple of steps forward and crouches down next to the girl. She's covered in soot, ash, and beneath that, blistering burns. Blood pours from her broken nose, and the armor that covers her sticks to her skin as much as it doesn't. She's as close to death as anyone can get, and he wonders if she's a warrior or a coward, clinging to life in such a way.

He doesn't judge. Maybe she has something worth living for.

Or, maybe, she just wants to live. He's met plenty of those types, too.

"You don't look too hot, girlie." Her glare hardens, and if looks could kill, Nappa is sure he'd already be dead. Too bad stronger warriors than her have tried, and none have succeeded. He offers her a grin instead. "None of that, now. I've got some questions for you, and depending on how you answer, this could hurt a little or a lot." Her fear comes back, twice as strong and thrice as showing. She tries to hide it, and she might not be able to move, but her entire body trembles. Hopefully, her fear will keep her anger in check.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"What do you want?" She asks, and she almost hides the waver in her voice. “What could the great Captain Nappa possibly want?” She spits his name like its a slur. And in fairness to her, it probably is one.

“You and the kid did this.” Nappa gestures to the smoldering clearing. It isn’t a question. He doesn’t ask, but the girl nods anyway. “That’s what I want to talk about.”

“And by the looks of things, you’re not going anywhere.”

She doesn’t respond. That’s okay, he doesn’t need her to talk yet. Grabbing one of her arms by the elbow, he gently checks the blackened skin of her hands through the melted pieces of metal. A hum leaves his lips. "What are the lot of you doing out in full force? Kid kill someone important, or is something else going on?"

She blinks. Or, well, he assumes she blinks. The melted mask she wears still covers half of her face. "Wait, you don't know?"

His smile sharpens. "Know what?"

"There was an incident with a hunting party," she says, inhaling a sharp, strained breath as his fingers ghost over a nasty burn. "Someone important had been a part of it. Someone that wasn’t supposed to be there. That's all I know."

Nappa grunts, reaches up to his scouter, and removes his scan requirements. Only then does his scouter lock on proper.

???

"Tell me about this armor, then." He pauses, runs his tongue against the inside of his cheek, and brings a finger up to wipe the accumulating ash off the bridge of his nose. The shit's about to make him sneeze. "And your augments, too. Kid you fought is pretty strong -- from your spot on the ground, it’s easy to say you figured that out -- so tell me how he struggled so much when I can’t even get a reading on you."

He brings a hand up, hovers it over her stomach.

It ignites with energy.

“Stop, I’ll tell you!” she screams. Fresh tears stream down her face, and several of the larger blisters pop under the heat that radiates from the hand he holds over her. “It all makes me stronger--” she gasps for air as he moves his hand away “--the suit amplifies movement and power output, gives me an edge.”

“And the augments?”

“Mostly the same,” she says through clenched teeth. “They replaced parts of my skeleton first, for strength and shock absorption. My muscles have cybernetics, my skin was replaced, and my senses have been enhanced to keep up with Saiyans and other threats.”

Nappa sneers. Of course fighting against the Chitauri for so long gave the Tuffles ideas. Resting his arm over his knee, he works his jaw from side to side and thinks on the implications. It makes sense, he supposes. Against a weaker Saiyan -- or any interplanetary threat, given the girl’s words -- there wouldn't be much of a contest, and just one child in a suit had the ability to lay Vegeta out.

If there'd been two or three of them, the kid wouldn't have stood a chance.

It’s a sobering thought. Out of all the warriors in his tribe, he can count on one hand the fighters that could match or beat the brat. Zorn, Maiz. Shorty and Scarface if he squints. Himself. “How many of you, of these things, are there? I can’t imagine it’s an easy process, or I’d have an entire city of enhanced Tuffles to worry about.”

“For right now, it's all one of a kind. The suit, the enhancements -- everything.”

Nappa frowns, furrows his brow. He hums, a low sound from the back of his throat, before he speaks again. When he does, his voice is hushed.

“You better not be lying to me.”

“I’m--” she shudders, swallows, and shakes her head as much as she can “--no, I’m not. It’s all experimental; I had to volunteer.” Her face twists. “Out of all the people who have undergone the procedures, I’m one of a few successes. They’re still working out the kinks, and the procedure has a high mortality rate.”

‘Only those with nothing to lose or everything to gain would even bother,’ he thinks. Nappa looks into her visible eye and wonders which she is.

“Why now?” He asks. “You lot have had all the time in the world, so why wait?”

“The Saiyans on Plant are dangerous. Over the past ten years, since the invasion, you lot have gotten more and more aggressive.” She grunts, wiggles a little as she tries to adjust. “Not only have the wilds become even more unsafe, but we continue to suffer at the hands of your species off planet, too. Food shipments, medicine, even equipment -- it’s all being pilfered. People got tired of being scared, and the higher ups got tired of you biting into their bottom line.”

Her words make sense, even if she misunderstands the situation. Nappa sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. The Saiyans haven’t gotten more aggressive because of the Tuffles being weakened. They started picking more fights when they realized that Lord Vegeta wasn’t around to keep them in check anymore. It’s something he’s guilty of too, and he’s been more than willing to use Tuffle squads as practice for Veggie while they bring him up to snuff.

Though, the implication of off-planet Saiyans doesn’t escape him. And if there was ever going to be a problem that came back to bite him in the ass, he isn’t surprised that it’s Caulifa and her Ravagers.

"These things are undetectable, yeah?" He asks, pointing down at the suit. She offers the shallowest nod, and while he doubts she's lying, he'll have to ask the brat later. "Fair enough. Final question."

"Are you still on coms?"

She swallows and nods, expecting the worst. Nappa snorts. "You're not making it out of this alive either way. If you have any final regards, pass them on now. I won't hold it against you if you have anything you want to say."

She sobs again. Not in fear, anger, or hate, but acceptance. "I'm sorry," she says. A slippery cough bubbles from her lips, and Nappa suspects she isn't talking about him. "I'm so sorry."

"It won't hurt," he says, and he means it. Although he isn’t going to guarantee that in the future, when he runs into one of these soldiers again. Maybe one day they’ll wisen up, disable the pain receptors so he can’t torture them.

‘Or they’ll add a kill switch,’ he thinks, popping his neck. ‘The former design would be preferable, though.’

At least that way he might get an interesting fight.

Nappa almost laughs. If he’d had the chance to go toe to toe with her, he might’ve, and he can’t help but think it would’ve been a fun fight. Pushing himself up, an energy blast forms in his hand.

When he walks away, it's with Vegeta slung over his shoulder. Nothing else in the clearing remains.

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"Keep your head held high. If you watch the ground, they'll think you weak or daft. But if you meet their stares, look them in the eye, they'll think you're strong for having survived."

Pricot holds his arms out as the family's tailor trims back a piece near his elbow. The sound of scissors shearing fabric almost grates as much as his father's voice, and the lingering dust in the stuffy, unused room does little to help his blossoming headache. His father stands off to the side, back turned, facing the wall, as if counting the pock marks in the crusty painting he observes.

"Make sure you stand with your shoulders squared." At Father’s words, the tailor pushes lightly on his back, guides him to the ‘proper posture’. "Yes, like that. Remember that you're making a statement. What you say is important, but how you're presented -- clothing, stance, your ability to speak -- all matter just as much."

"Now, tilt your chin down. Make sure your back is straight. Not too straight, else you'll look unnatural."

Pricot bites his tongue to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “I don’t see why it’s necessary for me to give a public statement, anyways,” he says, mindful of the man hovering under his arm. A light sigh makes its way past his lips. “Sure, I might’ve been there, but I was the furthest away. I didn’t even see anything.”

The CO made sure of it, he wants to say, yet he doesn’t have the courage to voice that thought. A third son he may be, but he knows that Father would’ve ruined anyone remotely involved if he’d been injured. Or worse. As much as he’d like to point fingers, he thinks it’d be unfair to judge his squad leader for making that call.

That doesn’t mean it sits well with him.

“It matters little.” For the first time, Father turns away from the painting and meets his eyes. His hard, steely stare is unnerving. “You were there, even if you didn’t see any… action.” He spits the word, like he’d taken a bite out of a fruit only to find it rotten to its core. “In ten years, no one will remember the nuance or the details, and history will only recall where you were. That is what matters.”

Father turns away again, but instead of looking back at the painting, he makes his way over to the single window in the tailor’s office. He places his gloved fingers against the frame and watches the busy street down below. “We’re presented with an unprecedented opportunity, son. Ever since the Black Order laid siege to our cities, we as a people have suffered.” He drums his fingers against the wood, rolls them over and over again. “You were young, then -- too young to remember -- but the Tuffles were once respected not only because of our technological prowess, but also due to our military might!”

It’s the first time the man slips. Well, as close to slipping as a mild-manner rant can be. His father takes several slow, steadying breaths before pulling up the pane and letting the sounds of outside fill the dingy office. “We allowed problems like the Saiyans to crop up in our own home. Too focused on rebuilding infrastructure to care, yet they continue to harass our hunting patrols enough that we’ve had to get the military involved. If they want to live in their caves, fine. But the fact that we let them roam free in the forests, the fact that we can’t mobilize to deal with them because of their natural strength -- that shouldn’t be a problem we let stand!”

“To think that a hundred years ago, we gave them land to call their own. And instead of being grateful, instead of trying to assimilate or learn our culture, they murder our soldiers and eat them!”

The tailor pats Pricot’s arm with a soft touch. He pushes up a stool, stands atop it, and admires his work from a different angle. The young man is too focused to care. He’s zeroed in on his father, too surprised by the amount of emotion the man shows to think of much else.

“But that’s not what happened.”

He doesn’t realize he’s spoken until his father turns to him with a cold, icy stare. “I--” he starts, stutters, and swallows “--I don’t mean that you’re wrong, Father. But I spoke with Durian, and the Siayan didn’t even attack him. If anything, he claims that the Saiyan protected him from getting caught in the crossfire. He saved his life!”

“Durian,” his father spits, “has a broken collar bone, fractured hip, and a concussion so severe that he couldn’t even remember your Captain’s name. He’s going to spend the foreseeable future eating out of a tube.”

Pricot inhales sharply. He squeezes his fists at his side hard enough that his nails dig into his palms and draw blood. The reminder strings. When the Saiyan kicked Durian across the clearing, Pricot thought his friend was already dead. And while his father is correct on the injuries -- even if he doesn’t understand their severity -- and while Durian hadn’t been… all there, he’d still been able to emphasize on how the Saiyan had tried to diffuse the situation.

Too bad that doesn’t seem to matter.

“I disagree. Your friend’s story is important, Pricot.”

It isn’t his father who speaks, but the tailor. A man whose name he doesn’t even know. He watches Father’s brow raise as he looks at the man, curious of what he has to say. “Maybe this Saiyan in question did save your friend,” he continues, stepping down from the ladder, “maybe he didn’t. But does the difference change anything?”

Pricot doesn’t have an answer. “Think about this,” the tailor says. He places his shears on the counter top and removes his glasses, cleans them against his vest. “At best, your friend is unreliable. He suffered a nasty enough head injury that he’s locked up in a surgery ward on the other side of the city. No media outlet even approached him for comment. They approached your commanding officer, who declined; they approached your squad supervisor, who told them to ‘eat dirt’; and they approached you. You’re correct in thinking that it’s because of your family -- I’m not going to lie and say that it isn’t the case -- but don’t you think that your friend’s story deserves to be heard?

He’s lucky to still be alive. Don’t you think that’s more important than anything else?”

Again, Pricot is unsure. It makes sense, what the tailor says, but the way Father starts to smile unsettles him. His father never smiles. But the man's lips turn up, he offers a shallow nod, and he turns back to the window.

“The decision is yours, Son. You’ve already agreed to speak, even if it was only with my own pressuring: a decision that I don’t regret. But what you choose to share? That is up to you.”

“I have given you all the tools I can. It’s up to you to choose how to use them.”

“I understand,” he says, even if he doesn’t.

His father speaks no more on the subject. The tailor offers him a light smile, passes him a coat, and directs him to the changing room. He goes through the motions. Getting dressed isn’t hard, but trying to stop the buzzing in his ears certainly is. His steps are mechanical, practiced as he follows his father down the stairs, out of the building, and onto the busy street.

The way the sunlight catches on the large, steel skyscrapers always blinds Pricot in the middle of the day. There’s so much light, and the way the buildings are constructed never does anyone any favors. But as he steps into the shade, under some branches of one of the many large, twisting trees that the sidewalk is built around, his eyes adjust.

Despite everything, people stay out in force. It’s a bit jarring. To think that only six hours ago, he and his squad had been in a live combat scenario, one where his closest friend had almost died. And here in Jambul, life goes on. A shaky breath leaves his lips.

It’s not worth dwelling on, he tells himself. Realistically, these people don’t know.

Father places a hand on his back, marshals him over to the vehicle they arrived in, but he still offers no words. Pricot sits in the passenger seat and watches the world pass by as they take off. They go slow -- it’s a trait of his father’s, to watch the scenery even if they have somewhere to be -- but for once in his life, he appreciates it. He stares at the people on the sidewalk, as they walk between the small shops and large, monolithic skyscrapers. Despite his somber thoughts, it brings a smile to his face.

Pricot loves his home. He enjoys seeing other people smile, and he takes delight in the way that the Tuffles come together. It’s one of his greatest reasons for enlisting. He might come from wealth, from money so old the dust that covers it is prehistoric, but he doesn’t care.

What good is wealth if there’s no one to share it with?

“We’re here,” Father says, breaking the silence between them. The hovercar eases down in front of the steps that lead up to the building where he’d agreed to do this interview. It’s an old building, built of chiseled stone instead of metal, and a large tree rises up through all three stories, reaches towards the sky.

LOCAL HAPPENINGS

The name, carved above the door in such a simple manner, lends itself well to a humble appearance. Despite that, there’s so much prestige.

Local Happenings is the oldest standing news establishment, the only one his father has ever worked with. When the Tuffles first came together, when Jambul City was nothing more than a settlement, this building had been built to serve as a news distribution for everyone on the frontier. From birth statistics to local gossip, they’d done it all.

And now, Pricot makes his way up the stairs of that history.

The great wooden doors squeak open, swinging inward on hinges that must be as old as the exterior. When his eyes adjust, he takes everything in.

The office is quaint. Pricot vaguely recalls visiting with his father when he was younger, but to look at it again makes it seem so different, even if it isn’t. It’s familiar, but in a way that doesn’t seem quite right. The floors sparkle with an almost clinical cleanliness, and the slate gray walls and dark-wood furniture contrast the pearl tile nicely. Everything looks opulent, prestigious, but also understated. Modest.

An older man stands from a padded chair near the reception desk. He’s dressed in the same way that the designer had fashioned the room: sharp, refined, yet not ostentatious. His hair is the color of coal, and comes to a prominent widow’s peak that frames his face. As he makes his way over, the dark brown vest that his suit coat covers catches in the light, and Pricot realizes it's a soft, dark red. His shoes click against the floor, and when he extends a hand to shake, Pricot grips it. He looks up into the eyes of the man a head and a half taller than him.

It’s a firm shake, and it’s easy to notice the ruggedness of the man's hand. “Are you Lieutenant Pricot?” he asks, and his voice rumbles like a moving mountain. At his nod, the man continues, “Well met, then. I’m Torato, and if you’re willing, I’d like to speak with you about your brief excursion near Lake Taya.”

Pricot doesn’t trust his voice. He offers a nod, and he wonders where he’s heard that name before. Father pats him on the shoulder, and when Pricot meets his eyes, the man offers the slightest smile.

“I’ll wait outside. Come and get me when you’re ready to go.”

He turns and walks away. Pricot blinks, shakes his head, and glances back at Torato who offers him a wry grin. “I’m ready,” he says and brings a hand up to scratch at his fresh, clean shave. “Lead the way.”

They go through a door at the back of the reception area, up two flights of stairs, and end up in a window office at the backside of the building. The window itself overlooks a local park, and it’s interesting, seeing the overshadow of the tree that goes through the building he’s in cover so much of the vegetation.

Are all their offices like this? Surely not, Pricot thinks.

“Now, as a forewarning, I will be recording this conversation to parse through at points.” Torato walks behind his desk and sits in his large, executive style chair, motioning for Pricot to do the same. Pricot nods his thanks, sits in one of the chairs on the opposite side, and watches as Torato pulls out a small audio recording device from one of the drawers, places it on his desk. “That doesn’t mean I’ll use everything that’s said, and if at any point, something comes up that you don’t want me to use, tell me. I don’t mind cutting anything out that you’re uncomfortable with. Everything I record will be shared publicly as an interview for more interested parties.

He chuckles. “Of course, except for what you want to omit.”

Reaching under his desk, Torato produces two glasses and a pitcher of chilled, flavored water. “I keep a cooler here, for such occasions,” he says, but Pricot focuses on the water instead. It smells like Spring, he wants to say as he holds it close to his nose. And as he takes a long pull, enjoys the sharp citrus and herb mix, he releases a drawn out sigh. It’s good. It’s really good, and he realizes that his nerves have frayed so much over the past day that he hasn’t stopped to have a bite to eat.

He clears his throat. There will be more time to fix that problem later. “People have been telling me to talk about the Saiyan. Who was he; where did he come from -- etcetera. But to me, it’s not important.” At Torato’s inquisitive brow, he presses on. “Saiyans are Saiyans. I don’t know the one we ran into, and I don’t know his motivations and goals.”

“For all I know, he could’ve been taking a stroll through the woods.”

Torato laughs a little. “While that certainly would be funny, I find that people speculate with good reason. Some interesting theories have cropped up. Some of them are outlandish, some of them are almost reasonable, but I’m curious if you’d be okay with me throwing some your way?” Pricot nods. “Well, one of the most prominent ones was that he was after you. Some have claimed that he was a hit man sent by the Ravagers to press your father, to make him scared. Do you think something like this has any credence?”

“As far as I know, neither my father -- nor Angola Corp -- have received any demands,” Pricot says. “Maybe he was an assassin, maybe he wasn’t. Like I said, I’m unsure.” Pricott thinks of his friend. He thinks of how the only reason he’s not here commenting instead is because he’s busy breathing through a tube. “Someone told me recently that it doesn’t really matter, and I agree with them.”

“Oh, you think so?” Torato asks, an easygoing smile plastered on his face. He swirls the contents of his own cup. “Then tell me what matters, Pricot.”

Pricot thinks of his travel here, of the people on the street without a worry in the world. To them, his friend is a statistic -- a number to flash at the bottom of the screen during the mid-day news cycle -- and the Saiyans are boogeymen: stories to tell their children to get them to stay in bed at night. Woe is the unlucky soldier who died in duty outside of the walls.

That’s why they don’t care. They don’t know Durian, and to them, he’s a number.

How can he change that?

His resolve sharpens. “I want to tell you about my friend, Durian. We enlisted together, and we were always as thick as thieves.”

Torato leans forward in his seat. “You’re talking in the past tense, Pricot. For those that don’t know,” he says, addressing the recording, “Durian was Pricot’s squadmate, and he was the soldier that had first contact with the Saiyan. Last I heard, Durian is still alive.”

“He is,” Pricot says, looking down at his water, “but it’s not going to be an easy recovery. As we put him on the stretcher for the evac lift, he was in a state of delirium. Now? He’s at the hospital, awaiting surgery so that he can breathe without the help of a machine again. He can’t tell it, so I want to. I want to tell you his story.”

“And how his first trip outside of the walls ended with meeting a single Saiyan. And how that Saiyan ruined his life.”