Two months pass by in the blink of an eye. Each day, I make my way out to the desert and run myself ragged. Each day, I don’t come back until my muscles ache, my limbs shake, and the coppery taste of blood fills my mouth and stains my teeth. It’s a comfortable hurt. Familiar, in a way. And the little gains I make seem all the sweeter when the ever increasing power level flashes across my scouter every morning.
It’s hard to feel yourself getting stronger. Continuous growth measures against itself by the day, hour, minute -- but being able to press the third button on the ear guard in the morning and seeing that number rise is an experience that can only be described as cathartic.
It’s a process that defines my routine.
A quiet yawn comes out as I reach up to my scouter and silence the blaring alarm. It’s loud. Way too damn loud. And as I use one hand to rub the sleep out of my eyes, I use the other to push myself up against the hard rock I’d bedded down on the night before.
My head hits the ceiling. A curse leaves my lips, even as the sharp, stone shapes come into focus. There’s no light in this caved-in cavern, and the only reason I can see anything at all is thanks to my not quite dark-vision.
“Fuck this,” I whisper, run my tongue over my chapped lips. Raising my hand to eye level, I call just enough ki forth to bathe the closed off tunnel in a soft glow. Power ignites in my palm. A ball of pure, concentrated yellow energy forms, and all the features I’d miss reveal themselves. The fat walls, narrow ceiling, and the lack of even ground -- though that last one is a given, seeing as my back feels like someone had taken a crowbar to it.
When I’d shacked up for the night, safety had been my greatest concern.
I’m starting to think it should’ve been comfort.
A sigh leaves my lips, and I close my eyes to listen. At first, it’s hard to hear anything over the orb of compressed power, over the way it hums. But just past that, past the dripping water from the cavern ceiling, there’s another soft sound. I channel just a touch of ki to pick it up easier, and my lips tug up as I catch it.
Wind. I can hear its quiet whistle, and I can hear the way it moves. From the front to the back; it starts high before it’s brought low; and it dissipates against the ground, maybe pushes hard enough to move some sand or loose stone. But that’s it, though. My eyes snap open, and I stare at the spot the sound comes from. There’s no light peaking through. No way for my eyes to see what my ears can hear, but I know that it’s there all the same.
I point. Adjust my aim. Fire.
The rubble gives way. The cave shakes (not enough to worry, but enough to know that something has changed) and when the smoke and sand and dust clear, the night sky stares back at me. Reaching up to the coms button, I press it and wait.
“This is Vegeta,” I say as I jump out of the hole, “reporting in. Anyone there?” There’s nothing but static, and it takes a minute for it to clear.
“I hear you, Vegeta,” a voice responds, words so whisht they’re almost a whisper. It’s lighter than Zorn’s, and it lacks the playful bite of Maiz or Nappa. “Anything to report?”
I blink. “Who the hell is this?”
There’s some shuffling on the other end followed by some aggravated shushing. “Vegeta, it’s me,” the voice says, and I make out some rushed movement and a door clicking shut in the background, “Barlee. Maiz threw his scouter at me, told me to answer. He also told me to say that it’s too early for you to try and call him, and he’ll kick your shit in the next time you do.”
“Of course he did,” I say, snort, and scratch my nose. “He offer any other interesting insight?" My lips stretch into a grin. "Or is he just being pissy?”
Barlee chokes on air as he tries his hardest not to laugh. “Careful how you talk about my brother, Vegeta. He likes you, and he thinks you’re funny, but I ain’t gonna pretend like he won’t follow through on his threats.”
Placing a palm against my neck, I continue. “Tell Maiz -- whenever he decides to get up -- that there’s no new update. Still hunting the wolvaby pack, and as soon as I locate and handle it, I’ll report in again.”
There’s a pause on the other side. “Wait, hold on. You stayed out last night and slept in a collapsed tunnel for a wolvaby hunt? There wasn’t something else you were going after? Y’know, something… more substantial?”
As I sit down and lean against a large rock, watch the horizon in the distance for any traces of the rising sun, I wonder if Nappa or Maiz deigned to tell anyone about why I was out here. Or, I think, rolling my jaw, they didn’t consider that someone like Barlee would be curious enough to ask.
“Listen, Barlee--” I pause, try not to let the frustration show in my voice “--it’s not like that.” I take a second to let some power come to the surface of my skin, hum as it burns away the pre-morning chill. “I mean, yes. It’s a wolvaby pack, but I’ve been on the trail for three days now. The biggest prints I’ve seen measure up to the grown brachiops I brought back last week, and there’s at least two others of similar size. If I bag the entire lot, we’ll have enough to feed the tribe for a week.”
Barlee sucks in air like an industrial shop vac. “Those are some big wolvaby.”
He’s right. It’s a simple enough concept to grasp. But saying ‘those are some big wolvaby’ has the same energy as someone saying ‘that’s a big cat’ while looking at a lion. Yes, it’s true. He’s technically correct. The reality of the situation is a bit more complicated.
“Barlee, I’m signing off. If Maiz needs me, I’ll answer any coms request if I’m able.” He makes a noise, a sound of protest like he wants to know more. I don’t give him the time to pose another question. And with a click, the line goes dead.
I blow everything my lungs hold in a drawn out exhale. Staring out at the badlands, I twist my back, grunt when I get a loud, audible crack in response. It’s still early. Too early, and the wildlife hasn’t even had a chance to breathe yet. There’s no song, no lilt, no life.
As far as I can tell, I’m the only one, the only thing, up at this hour.
Meaning it’s time to get to business.
I jump down the mound of rubble in the face of the mountainside. There’s just enough starlight that I’m sure with my footing, and with two or three leaps, I touch down at the base of the hidden-pass I’d stopped at a few hours prior. Crouching down, another sphere of ki ignites in my hand.
The glow reveals the tracks hidden in the shadows.
They’re massive. At least a foot-and-a-half in diameter, give or take a couple inches. Something that would be understandable on a creature like an elephant. “But wolvaby aren’t elephants,” I say under my breath. From experience, they’re built like large badgers, usually a couple of feet long without their tails. Barring the potential of the tracks in the ground, the largest I’d seen to date hadn’t been taller than me.
I click for a scan, count to ten, and when it comes back without a number higher than twenty, I bring a hand up to rub at my chin. Do I expect anything different? No, not really. Even if they were on top of me, I doubt the scouter would’ve been able to get a hold of them.
Removing the piece of equipment from my ear and clipping it onto my tail, I bring my hand back up to pinch the bridge of my nose. It had taken me two days of back and forth, two wasted days where I ran around in circles before I figured it out. And without meta knowledge, I probably never would’ve. It isn’t that the wolvaby are strong. Though, I’m sure they are. It’s that they’re old. Borderline ancient. And they adapted to their surroundings long before the Saiyans arrived and challenged everything within beating distance.
Somewhere along the way, this specific group had discovered how to conceal themselves.
Scouters, ki sense -- nothing works. For now, it’s been a puzzle that I’ve tried to piece together during the duration of the hunt, but I’m still unsure how they do it. Perhaps they burrow deep underground. So deep, that nothing can find them there. Or perhaps they’ve insulated their homes with the same shit the Tuffles line their mechs with. There’s a small chance that the other semi-sapient race on planet Plant developed the technology by observing it in nature.
A snort passes my lips, harsher than a wild boar’s in the middle of mating season. While I’m unsure how populated the forests are with wolvaby, I very much doubt that the Tuffles ever took note of such a thing. Though I could be selling their ecological interest short. What, with the giant forests that they’ve somehow grown.
But that’s just conjecture, and it’s a path that leads nowhere. There’s another option. A final option. The one I want to see, where the wolvaby in question don’t hide beneath or behind the earth, but instead figured out something that I can’t.
How to conceal their energy.
For a moment, I debate on taking to the skies. Might be a chance that I can catch them from a bird’s eye view. But again, there might not be, and the odds that I can spot anything from the air are slim to none with the light as low as it is.
“Not all of these tracks are fresh,” I say, taking note of the way some stones have shuffled around while others haven’t. “Older ones are half covered, too.”
They’re also damp. Somehow.
Did they come through last night? Shit, they must’ve. I stare at the prints for a moment longer before I ease the ball of ki away, allowing it to dissipate before reaffixing my scouter to my left ear. Answer one query, and ten more jump up to take its place. How often do they frequent this pass; is it always at the same hour; do they all come together -- a lot of questions with next to no explanation.
What comes next? I sigh, reach up to the third button on the ear guard, and initiate a self scan. In a handful of seconds, the reading returns.
1520.
A seven point increase from the day before. One of my better days, for sure. And while 1500 had been an impressive milestone to reach, one I’d taken pride in, 1430 had mattered more to me at the time. A one-hundred and eighty point increase from 1250; a match for the amount I had gained from a single Zenkai. I’d paced myself. Taken stock of exactly how long the process would take. And when I hit that specific point -- after one month, one week, and six days -- the first trial for natural training versus bullshit biology concluded. I had my answer.
It had taken almost three times longer to achieve the same gains naturally. And even though I’m not going to go fiend for an ass kicking, this now stands as the baseline of testing. When (not if, but when) I get put through the ringer next, I’ll run the same exact experiment, test the comparison between the two if for no other reason than to satiate my curiosity. I’m not sure if quantifying the Zenkai will ever matter. Hell, I’m not sure if it’s even a consistent thing to measure.
But its knowledge that I now have. Potentially worthless to most, yet it is something that I’ve learned all the same.
“If we ever get out of the thick of it, I’ll fill a book full of this shit.” I chuckle to myself, stick two fingers in my mouth, and run them against the inside of my cheek. When they’re nice and gross, I hold them up in the air.
Wind blows from the south.
I shake my hand off, rub it against my furs as I struggle to make up my mind. Indecision wars within me. Do I follow the tracks as they are, spend another day trying (and potentially failing) to make heads or tails of whatever game the wolvaby play? Or do I lie and wait, set-up in the pass and pray that they come through?
Neither option sounds appealing. But as I take another look down at what I assume is a dry riverbed, a flash of inspiration strikes. I crouch down, place my hand against the freshest print, and press my hand into the sand.
I idly wonder how long this river has been dry.
My aura flashes to life around me. If I’m going to lie in wait for an ambush, it isn’t going to be at a path that something might travel. There’s better uses of my time than that.
If anything, I’ll set-up shop at the source.
----------------------------------------
There are no dry seasons on Plant. Only droughts.
A definable difference exists between the two. The desert is dry year-round, and for rain to fall more than two or three times is a blessing. At least, for the less able. Saiyans are different. They can shatter stone and steel, shoulder the skies, fly amongst the clouds without a worry in the world. Topping off in the desert isn’t hard when you can cross it in a day. And within an hour, through sight or smell or sound, any Saiyan worth their salt can find a source of water.
For the small critters that inhabit the badlands, the varmints that eat one rung above grass on the food-chain ladder, it’s different. To them, the differentiation matters. Rain comes when it comes. It could be tomorrow, next month, next year -- they don’t know. Hell, I don’t know either.
And it’s the lack of knowledge that drives the ecosystem.
If you look at the facts on paper, read them off the lines of some dusty, earth-science textbook in a Tuffle library, it’s easy to miss the point. But as I rest under the shade of one of the few trees downwind, watch the only natural spring around for miles like a hawk, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve missed the point too. Conventional wisdom disagrees. It says that every living animal, no matter how large or how small, needs water to survive. For water, for food, for shelter or some other essential need.
All roads lead to Rome. They might not be equally traveled, but they’re walked all the same. The wet footprints nearby reinforce that thinking. The area sees traffic, and the wolvaby seem to come through here often.
So where are they?
My ki hums just beneath my skin. It begs to burn like a dry pinecone dipped in vaseline, pulls at its leash like a hungry hound on its twilight hunt. Instead, I opt to release it, give up my tight hold and let the emptiness fill me. There isn’t a destructive blast or earth-shattering shockwave. I don’t expect one. But the tiny bit of power that escapes creates just enough wind to disturb the leaves up above and let light filter in through the gaps.
I never tear any away and form it into something physical. That’s not the point. Continuous use helps control (helps me understand) and in moments of downtime like this where I can’t focus on building strength, I find myself falling back onto these casual exercises.
They help. Or, at least, I think they do. Again, it’s hard to tell when you only have yourself to measure against. No other Saiyan practices ki control, and while I get to spar against Nappa and Maiz and Zorn on the regular, it isn’t like I show these cards.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
They stay close to my chest.
In the future, I’m sure that’ll change. It seems shitty, feels shitty, and while I’m sure that someday soon I’ll share the wisdom I have, it isn’t today. If I’m ever going to beat my betters, I need an ace in the hole.
I’m unsure if it’s the right call. But it’s what my gut says, so it’s a call I make all the same.
A bird trills in the distance. I glance back up from my hands, try and focus on the problems in front of me instead of the ones the future presents. The natural spring stays still. Undisturbed. Even the insects touching down on its surface -- the ones that are so loud, I can hear them from here -- aren’t visible. The tiny ripples they make might as well not exist.
Outside of that, it’s quiet. The first sun rises towards its zenith, and the second peeks out from behind the mountain range I’d come from. Their light doesn’t shine on any predators, on any prey, that hide between the short grass or tall weeds. As far as I can tell, I’m alone.
Until I’m not. My scouter snaps to life and locks onto a power level approaching behind me.
250.
Before it’s finished, I flare my ki sense. The one signature comes from downwind (the same strategy I’d deployed) and creeps up as silent as a field mouse, but it’s the other two, slightly larger ones that give me pause. They hang back out of range. Out of MK I scouter range, at the least. And I can’t help but wonder if whatever -- whoever -- it is sneaking up on me tested the detection of more modern equipment first.
I’d bet my bottom dollar they had. A chumps wager, maybe, but one that I’d cash out on all the same. The slow, methodical movements reinforce my opinion. No one comes at me swinging. It’s all practiced patience, and I’m left guessing at how long it’s gonna take before I can make my own move.
Current working theory is that the assholes in the back wanted to see if I’d react to their buddy’s approach.
So I count in my head. Closing my eyes, I focus on his signature as it nears, and I reach out with my natural senses to see if I can notice them that way as well. While they might not smell -- at least, not that I can tell -- they certainly aren’t as quiet as they think, and I can feel the faintest of tremors with every step they take. I cutoff that flow, take hold of my energy in other ways that lets it fill my body and flood my muscles.
Twenty seven seconds pass before I move.
My target realizes too late. He squeaks like a chew-toy, aims an unprepared blast my way. The other two in the back move towards us, shoot into the sky and push for all their worth, but they can’t stop me.
They’re too slow.
The blast bounces off my palm, and I get close enough to see the whites of his eyes before anyone can blink. A twist, a snap, a startled cry. I take hold of the arm that had fired the attack, yank it behind my target’s back, and force him to the ground. It isn’t broken, but I very much doubt it’s comfortable.
“Keep moving and I’ll rip your arm off,” I say, scoffing when he stops. With a heavy breath, I raise my voice before addressing the others. “And you two. Land in front of me where I can see you!”
A snort leaves my lips. I’d come here for a hunt, and now I have an old fashioned standoff on my hands. The guy below me tries to turn, tries to say something, but I silence him with a little pressure. He’s familiar, in a far off kind of way. With his hair tied back into a rough rat-tail, I feel as if I should know him, and the thought tickles an itch in the back of my brain, a foggy memory that lingers just out of reach.
It’s impossible to ignore the two guys in front of me, though.
With hair as wild as the lands we call home, dressed in furs and rags much like my own, Bardock looks just like his son. He’s taller than me, in the throes of his first growth spurt. But the way his lips turn down is undeniably ‘serious Goku’, and I find myself chewing on my cheek to stifle my laughs.
His partner is the opposite. If Bardock appears as authentic, his pasty doppelganger screams uncanny. Turles isn’t a character I’m overly familiar with, but I do recognize him as the first Goku Black, the first evil Goku. And the way he folds his arms over his chest as he smirks down at his fallen comrade does little for first impressions.
All things considered, it’s a bit of a pot meets kettle moment for me.
“Who are you?” I ask, bringing my hand up to my nose to stop myself from sneezing with the kicked up dust, “and what the hell do you want?”
Neither of them speak for a second. It gives the scouter all the time that it needs to go through its initial scan and spit the numbers up onto the HUD. The 340 reading comes up first, far lower than I expect, but the number that sits under it surprises me more.
310.
Bardock’s reading. Between the two of them, he’s weaker, and it’s almost staggering to see the humble beginnings of a man who would one day go on to surpass the majority of his peers. Or not, I think as I run a hand through my hair. That’s not how it always happens. An outcome from movies and TV specials, but as far as I know, this is a universe where both his sons surpass him instead.
I run my tongue over my teeth. “Well? You gonna answer my question, or are you just gonna gawk? I haven’t got all day.”
Turles steps forward first. “Wait, we just came to talk,” he says, holds up a hand. “I’m Turles, this is Bardock, and there’s no need to do anything hasty, now. We’re all civilized here.” Despite everything, an unexpected laugh bubbles up my throat. From the way Turles’ smirk loses a little edge, it’s an easy guess that he’d been hoping for that result, and I loosen my grip just enough to let the guy under me breathe a little easier.
“Go ahead and talk, then. I’m listening.”
Bardock makes a show of staring down at his fallen comrade. His eyes trail down, stop for a second, and come back up to meet my own. “You mind lettin’ Tora up so we can all chat? Y’know, as a show of good faith.”
Good faith my ass. “That’s a lot to ask from someone you just jumped,” I say and watch Bardock tense like he went feet first into ice water, “but I’m a good enough sport. Tell you what--” I pause, glance down, and address the guy up under me “--I’ll let go of your arm and take a couple of steps back, then you can make your way back over to your buddies.
Move slow. Don’t try anything and we won’t have a problem.”
I look down at the now named Tora, who grunts an affirmation and swallows. Nervous sweat drips down his brow, but when I meet his eyes, make a show of releasing his arm before taking a couple of steps back, he returns my nod with one of his own and stands on shaky legs. Unsure how dangerous he likes to live, but I’m sure a scare like that is something he’ll remember.
“Alright, now that we’re all up and able, why don’t the three of you tell me what the idea was here. Don’t stop with the ‘why’ you attacked me either, because I very much want to know ‘when’ you had this bad idea and ‘how’ you thought it was a good one.”
Tora places his hands on his knees and chuckles as he catches his breath. Bardock outright laughs, stares at his double with a look that screams ‘I told you so’. And Turles looks anywhere but me -- the mountains, the sky, his uncovered feet -- as he scratches his cheek.
At least he has the decency to look sheepish.
“It seemed like a decent idea at first.” At my quirked brow, he huffs and continues, “we needed to test you, alright? Figured you were strong when we first noticed you, saw how you moved around the sky. Didn't realize you had a scouter at that time, but it does reinforce that opinion.”
The way I move? A gust of wind kicks up between us and some sand passes by on the hard, baked earth. Regardless of the harsh environment, I still don’t understand.
“What do you mean?”
Turles sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “The point is that anyone weak would’ve gotten torn apart for being so casual. We hunt in a group of three, not because we want to, but because it’s necessary; we don’t have scouters, not because we don’t want them, but because they’re hard to come by and harder to earn.
You ignore the rules,” he says, spits off to the side. “Only the strong get to do that.”
That’s fair, and it makes sense when he drives it home. It’s also an experience that aligns with how the rest of the tribe operates. Myself, Maiz, Zorn -- we’re exceptions, not the standard.
“Yeah, alright, I get that. You were checking to make sure I was some tough guy, but you still haven’t talked through the mental gymnastics of why you wanted to check.” When Turles tries to speak, I hold up a hand. “And cut the shit with the flattery. I get it. I’m strong, but I don’t care about that.”
“We do, though,” Bardock says, placing a hand on Turles’ shoulder. “We weren’t here to work you over. We needed to make sure you were the real deal, else speakin’ to you would be a waste of time.”
“A waste of time for what?”
Tora grins. “Well, we need your help. The wolvaby nest you’re looking for? We know where it’s at, but we’re not enough to take it on. Agree to lend a hand, and you can take as much meat as a carrier cart can handle.”
I run my hand over my chin in a slow, practiced motion. “You lot should’ve led with that.
It would’ve saved you a lot of trouble.”
----------------------------------------
Their camp is a rockshelter in the mountainside. A hollowed out, shallow cave that sits half-a-hundred feet below the peak, with just enough space for a couple of people to sleep and eat. There’s a wolvaby corpse off to the side, one I assume they picked off from the pack, and a couple of stuffed bedrolls sprawled out in different corners.
When I first walk in, I one-eighty and walk right back out.
There isn't any wood. So I collect a couple fallen limbs from the trees at the base of the mountain before making my way back up to the hideout. An extending platform clears the ceiling at the mouth of the cave, and I set out to make a fire.
In part, because I'm hungry. The wolvaby corpse isn't old, it's already been trimmed in parts, and I haven't had a bite to eat all day. With six feet between the head and the ass, it's a lot of food -- more than I could eat on my own, and I know it'll make a good meal split between four Saiyans. The second reason is a bit more personal. It annoys Turles. The process sets him on edge, bothers him enough that he feels the need to pace back and forth behind me as I prepare the pit. Bardock laughs. He finds it funnier than I do and steps over to give me a hand to twist the knife. Tora remains a bit more reserved, though I do glance at him from time to time, take note of the way he sits on his cot and grins.
They're close, I realize. The three of them. Turles and Bardock are clearly related: rather brothers or cousins or former roommates, I'm unsure -- but Tora is just as much a member of their merry band of misfits. Despite the terse atmosphere on the way over, they bantered, cracked jokes at each other's expense.
It's a lot more... familial than my own tribe.
Fire flickers to life between my fingers as I call forth a trickle of ki to ignite the kindling. It's the smallest smidgen I can muster, and I worry that it borders on too much when the log flares up. Turles whistles, crouches down, and inspects my work.
"You've got a lot of finesse," he says and thumbs his nose. Even from a couple of feet away, I can hear him suck on his teeth. "How strong did you say you were again?"
"I didn't."
A pause follows my declaration as if he's waiting on me to elaborate. I don't. Instead, I wait for Bardock, give him a hand setting the wolvaby on a shoddy split that we'd thrown together without any rope or twine.
Bardock snorts as he spears a stick through the beast's snout and sets it over the flame. "Stop fishin' for shit, Turles. If he wants to say, he'll say." He turns his attention to me. "Though, you didn't exactly introduce yourself, either. I don't even know your damned name."
"Vegeta," I say, adjusting the split, "my name's Vegeta."
Tora scoffs, stands, and makes his way over to us. "What, like that one asshole?"
I laugh. "Yeah, like that one asshole."
We lapse into a comfortable silence after a while. Every now and then, one of the three stooges will ask a question. Sometimes I'll answer, sometimes I won't, but without fail, one will always respond to the other and make some taunting remark. It's funny. They're funny, and I enjoy the game that they play while they try to subtly grill me for answers. I'm unsure if they know that I know, but I think Turles gets an idea after a while, when he gets quieter and only speaks to step in as the other two get too loud.
He's wary. Of the situation, of the way I do things, of me. But he's a good sport, and I catch him grinning more than not. After a while, after a couple of hours pass, I stand and check the meat for a final time before removing the split and laying the spatchcocked wolvaby on the ground. Removing a pouch from my waistband, I crush a piece of rock-salt and sprinkle it on the inside of the carved ribcage. It would've been better to do it before, but I don't have enough to season it all the way through, so a last-minute touch will have to suffice.
"That some kind of poison or somethin’?" Tora asks, rubbing the back of his hand against his chin. Oh damn, dude is straight up drooling. "Shit, at this point, I'll eat it even if it kills me."
"Nah, nothing like that." I reach down and make a show of the way the meat pulls apart like barbecued pork from back home before tossing it into my mouth.
"Salt makes it taste better."
Bardock quirks a brow, continues to look dubious. At least until he reaches down and grabs a handful for himself. He takes a bite, and before he's even finished with what's in his mouth, he's trying to shove more in.
"Vegeta ain't lying," Bardock says around the food he still hasn't swallowed. I wince away from the spittle that flies from his lips, and he keeps going, "this stuff is premium. Poisoned or not, I'll eat your share if you don't want it."
That comment gets the ball rolling. Tora and Turles sit on the opposite side of our impromptu meal, picking between the ribs and tearing them out to get to the spoils underneath. We don't stop. And after a while, when the bones are bleached dry like a cow-skull left out in the Texas heat, everyone calls it. Even split four ways, it's a lot of food. An absurd amount of grub. And while I know I won't hurl, an uncomfortable heaviness settles in my stomach.
It's met with equal parts contentment. There's a feeling in the air, like I've met some sort of standard I didn't know anything about, like I've completed a challenge I had been issued on the sly. I realize it's not far from reality. Bardock, Tora, Turles - they all look at me with steady stares and raised brows and soft smiles instead of the biting or dismissive side-eyes of before. It takes me a second to realize why.
They're acknowledging me. Not because of my strength -- no, they already know I'm strong -- but in spite of it. It's me that they're looking at. The individual. The Saiyan who eats like them, jokes like them, and looks like them.
My power level doesn’t matter because I don’t bring it up.
"Alright," I say, stand, and make my way into the cave, "let's get down to business."
The others settle down on their mats as I lean against the wall. "What do you wanna know?" Turles asks, cracking a pulley bone between two fingers before using it to pick his teeth. "Not really sure what you managed to figure out on your own. So ask, and I’ll answer.”
I hum, remove the top from my waterskin, and take a couple of swigs. The coolness soothes my dry throat. “Numbers, mainly,” I say, swallow, and toss the skin to Tora who’s busy patting his bag and can’t seem to find his own. He catches it with deft hands, offers a wink and a nod. “How big are they; how many are there; how did they hide from my scouter? You know, things like that.”
“Depends on their age,” Bardock says as he glances at me from his spot on the ground. “We’ve been scouting the area for the last week. Biggest one to turn up was more than twice as large as what we just ate.”
Eight feet tall and twelve feet long? Substantial, for sure, but hardly a problem for a trio of Saiyans if they waited for an ambush. A sentiment that I share aloud.
“That’s big, but you three are strong enough to handle something like that. Why wait for help?”
“It’s just the biggest one we saw.” Everyone turns to Tora, and he corks my old-fashioned water bottle before tossing it back my way. “But you’ve seen the same prints as us. Even the largest ones we’ve caught sight of weren't two-thirds as big as the creature that left the marks in the pass.”
“There’s also more than twenty of them.” What? I blink, glance back to Turles, and motion for him to continue. Asshole is too busy looking smug from the bomb he just dropped to speak.
“Well, they’re not all that big,” Bardock says, grinning as he weathers Turles’ glare, “but we’ve measured the tracks against each other. At first, we thought we were following the same group of wolvaby for a quick meal. But it kept getting bigger, and we realized that the tracks were different each time.”
“Lot of them are able to hide from your scouter by staying under the mountain.” Bardock frowns as Turles interrupts him, but he lets his pasty friend take the lead. “That’s my guess, at least. You were close with the tunnels you went through under the mountain, but there’s a direct route that we found.” Turles’ smirk cuts across his face like a jagged wound.
“And you were sitting on top of it when we found you.”
“Pardon?” I ask, frown, and scratch my chin. While the revelation that they were in the mountain all but cements my theory about power level suppression (with my own senses going further than the scouter, it’s a foregone conclusion) but what route could he possibly be talking about? The land around the spring wasn’t raised enough for a hidden burrow, and there would’ve been more signs of life.
Then I recall the wet footprints.
“You’ve figured it out,” Turles says, pushes himself up to stand. “They don’t come to the watering hole to drink. They come from the watering hole to hunt. The tunnel system protects from intruders, and the only other way in -- through the underground river -- is a death sentence for anything without strong enough lungs to make it against the current.”
He takes a couple of steps forward and stops when we’re face to face. With a soft sigh, Turles shakes his head and extends a hand towards me. “Probably not my best bet to show all my cards like this. But when it comes down to it, we can’t do this without you. So tell me now: are you in or out?”
I look down at his hand for a second or two. Truthfully, I don’t need their help. I could blast this cave down right now, make a break for it, and finish the job before they could dig themselves out of the rubble.
What’s the point, though?
More meat, more guts, more glory? I don’t care about any of that outside of what the tribe needs to survive, and I sure as shit don’t do anything for my people by fucking these guys over. But making an ally here? A friend or two? That could last a lifetime, and I’m while I’m… more than skeptical regarding Turles’ and who he becomes, he isn’t that person yet.
Nappa is a good guy. He’s a murder-hobo, a notorious criminal, but he’s a good guy. Who’s to say that Turles isn’t the same. A sigh leaves my lips, and I make up my mind. Our eyes lock.
And I reach forward to clasp his hand with my own.