Enjoy the chapter, I did it in a hurry so it can have some mistakes. Yesterday, I had a big problem, so I couldn't finish writing.
--
The "Kemo Lounge" sat on the highest tier of the Elite Sector. It was a place where high-ranking officers came to wash the taste of blood out of their mouths with expensive liquor.
The lighting was dim, casting long shadows against the dark stone walls. The air smelled of roasted meat and heavy, fermented ale.
I sat in a corner booth, my back to the wall, old habits die hard. Across from me, Ruca was tearing into a massive, bone-in haunch of some reptile creature.
"This is actual meat," she said, her voice rougher than usual, distorted by a mouthful of food. She swallowed, wiping grease from her chin with the back of her hand. "Not that thing they make us eat on missions. I almost forgot what it felt like to chew."
"It costs enough," I noted, taking a sip of my ale. It was strong, bitter, and burned pleasantly on the way down.
Maybe it was the lingering memory of the meal with the Briefs family on Earth, or maybe it was just the alcohol, but I felt… relaxed.
Ruca chuckled, a low, throaty sound. She leaned back, one arm draped over the back of the booth."Did you see his face?"
"Who?"
"The long-haired one. Raditz."
"I saw it,"
"When you grabbed him," Ruca mimicked the expression, widening her eyes comically and puffing out her cheeks. She raised her hands in mock surrender. "He looked like he'd just seen Frieza. Pure, absolute terror."
I swirled my drink, a small smirk tugging at my lips. "He needed a correction. He thinks being chosen in an elite squad makes him strong."
"It was satisfying," Ruca admitted, tearing another strip of meat off the bone. "Watching the 'Royal Youth' realize they aren't the biggest predators in the room? I could watch that all day. You have a talent for traumatizing children, Cress."
"I guess so." A smile crept onto my face. If it wasn't for the queen, I would've already taught a lesson to Vegeta.
Then the silence came, it was confortable.
I stared at her. I knew her fighting stance, she favored her left side when she was tired, she liked firing blasts in the beginning of fights.
But as I looked at her now, relaxed and unguarded, I realized I knew absolutely nothing else.
"Ruca," I said.
She looked up, raising an eyebrow. "What?"
"What do you like?"
She stared at me, her glass halfway to her mouth. She blinked, genuinely confused. "Like? What do you mean? I like this ale. I like this meat."
"No," I pressed, leaning forward slightly. "I mean... what makes you happy? Outside of fighting. Outside of the missions."
Ruca lowered her glass. She frowned, her tail twitching in irritation under the table. She looked at the ceiling, then at her hands, then back at me.
"I like winning," she offered. "I like when a plan works. I like... silence?"
"Those are reactions," I said. "Not hobbies. What do you do for yourself?"
She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it. Her frown deepened.
The silence stretched. It wasn't comfortable anymore. It was heavy.
She realized it at the same time I did. There was nothing. Her life, like the life of every Saiyan in this room, was a hollow loop of training, killing, and sleeping.
"I don't know," she admitted quietly. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a sudden, stark vulnerability. She looked at her reflection in the dark liquid of her cup.
She took a long drink, emptying the glass. She slammed it down on the table a little too hard.
"I like sparring," she said, her voice slow, working through the thought process in real-time.
"That's work," I countered gently.
"No," she shook her head, her eyes locking onto mine. "Not just sparring. I like sparring... with you."
I froze.
"I like the quiet in the Blind Spot," she continued, her voice gaining a strange, reckless momentum. "When we're done, and we just sit there. I like that."
She gestured vaguely at the empty plates.
"I liked the missions. Not because of the killing. But because... you were there. You make it interesting, Cress. You make the boredom go away."
She said it casually.
But to me, it was obvious. She wasn't describing activities, she was describing a person. The air in the booth felt suddenly very thin.
"Right," I managed to say. I needed to pivot. The tension was getting too thick. "And what do you dislike?"
Ruca snorted, the moment breaking slightly. "Easy. I hate Frieza. I hate the Force. I hate the way my father treats you."
She paused. Her eyes softened, just a fraction.
"...And I hated when you went to space without me."
She looked away, picking at a scratch on the wooden table.
"Your turn," she muttered. "What do you like, Cress?"
I looked at her.
My mind flashed to Earth. Before my reincarnation, I liked reading mangas, I like gaming and listening to music. But it wasn't something from here. I then thought of the closest thing that was pleasant.
"Sparring with you," I admitted softly.
Ruca looked up, surprised.
"That was the only thing I enjoyed here," I said, the truth of it shocking me as much as her. "And sometimes... I disliked it the least."
Ruca stared at me. A slow, genuine smile spread across her face. It wasn't the shark-like grin of battle. It was smaller. Softer.
"Disliked it the least," she repeated. "High praise from you."
"Don't let it go to your head," I muttered, finishing my drink.
We sat there for a long time, not saying anything else.
"Let's go," Ruca said eventually, standing up. "Before Nappa drinks the barracks dry."
We walked back through the cold night of the Elite Sector. We didn't touch, but we walked close enough that our arms brushed against each other.
--
The wind on the Lookout was different than any wind I had ever felt.
Kami and I sat in the inner sanctuary. The tea Mr. Popo had poured was still steaming between us.
The old Guardian looked troubled. He was leaning on his staff, his wrinkled brow furrowed as he studied me.
"Earlier," Kami said, his voice raspy. "When you arrived. You said, 'I know what you are.' Did you mean... God?"
I set my cup down. "No."
Kami stiffened. "Then you meant... Demon."
He looked down at his hands, green and clawed.
"For centuries, I have wondered," Kami whispered. "I have no memory of my origin. I only know that I am different. I look like the Great Demon King Piccolo. I fought to purge the evil from myself to become Guardian, but the face remains. The monster remains."
He looked at me with ancient, sad eyes.
"Is that what I am, Cress? A monster from the stars?"
I shook my head slowly.
"You are not a demon, Guardian," I said. "And you are not a monster."
I leaned forward.
"You are a Namekian. From the Planet Namek."
Kami blinked. "Namekian?"
"It is a world of peace," I explained, pulling the knowledge from my past life. "Your people are sages. Healers. Magicians. They are not warriors, though some can be. They live in harmony with their world. They created the Dragon Balls not for power, but as a test of hope."
I gestured to him.
"You are not a mistake, Kami. You are a castaway. A child sent away to survive a cataclysm long ago."
Kami sat in stunned silence. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out.
I had no reasons to hide this knowledge from him, so I told him what I knew.
For hundreds of years, he had lived in isolation above the clouds, believing himself to be an aberration. A singular, twisted existence.
"I have...people?" Kami whispered.
"You have a home," I confirmed. "And you are a Namekian."
Kami closed his eyes. His shoulders, usually held high with the burden of the world, slumped.
A single tear leaked from his eye, tracking down the deep grooves of his green skin.
"I am not alone," he breathed.
The relief radiating off him was palpable. It was the lifting of a curse.
He sat there for a long time, composing himself. When he opened his eyes, they were clearer. Lighter.
"Thank you," Kami said. "You have given me a peace I did not know I lacked."
He picked up his tea.
"Now... you asked for training. Spirit Control. But I sense there is another question weighing on your mind."
I nodded.
"Guardian," I asked carefully. "If you knew someone... a child... who possessed power beyond comprehension, but lost all reason when they used it."
I clenched my fist, remembering the Oozaru rage.
"Someone whose anger makes them a monster. Someone who drowns in their own power. How would you teach them?"
Kami sipped his tea, contemplating.
"Rage is a fire," Kami said softly. "If you try to smother it, it explodes. If you try to let it burn, it consumes."
He looked at me.
"You cannot teach a storm to be quiet, Cress. But you can give it a center. An eye."
"An eye?"
"A focal point," Kami explained. "When the mind breaks, the spirit seeks an anchor. If this child loses himself, he needs something external to hold onto. A voice. A presence. Something that cuts through the noise."
He tapped his own chest.
"You must become his anchor. You cannot teach him to control the rage yet. First, you must teach him to trust you more than he trusts the anger."
I absorbed the words.
An anchor.
"Trust," I repeated.
"It is the hardest thing to build," Kami warned. "Especially for a monster. But it is the only chain that holds."
--
I woke up with a clear head, but a heavy sensation in my chest.
Embarrassment.
I stared at the ceiling, replaying the conversation from the Kemo Lounge.
"I disliked it the least."
I groaned, covering my face with my hand. Who says that?I had let the alcohol and the momentary relief of the Earth memories soften my filter.
"Never again," I whispered to the empty room.
I stepped out into the corridor.
And walked straight into her.
Ruca was leaning against the wall opposite my door. She was fully armored, her helmet tucked under her arm.
I froze. My instinct was to deflect, to make a joke, or to be cold.
But Ruca didn't give me the chance.
She just looked at me.
She pushed herself off the wall and fell into step beside me as I started walking. But the distance was different. Usually, she walked a foot away, giving me combat space. Today, her shoulder brushed against my arm.
She didn't pull away.
"Six days," Ruca said. Her voice was calm, professional, but there was an undercurrent of something else. A quiet familiarity.
"Until launch," I confirmed, keeping my eyes forward.
"Nappa is already at the barracks," she said. "He's shouting."
"Nappa is always shouting."
We reached the intersection of the hallway. She stopped, turning to face me. Her eyes lingered on my face for a second too long, searching for the vulnerability I had shown last night.
Then, she blinked, and the bored Elite mask slammed back into place.
"Don't be late, Cress," she drawled. "I'd hate to have to explain to my father why his favorite mutant is slacking off."
She turned and walked toward the training grounds.
I watched her go. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. It wasn't resolved. It was just... waiting.
--
The barracks of Nappa's unit were located in the sublevels, a cavernous metal box that smelled of sweat, ozone, and testosterone.
It was deafening.
"Hit me!" Prince Vegeta screamed. "Stop moving around like a coward and hit me!"
I stopped in the doorway, scanning the room.
In the center of the training mats, Prince Vegeta was systematically dismantling Zuto.
It was a humiliation.
Zuto, a full-grown Saiyan warrior with a power level pushing 5,000, was on the defensive. He was blocking, dodging, and weaving, sweat pouring down his face.
"My Prince," Zuto gasped, parrying a vicious kick. "I cannot strike you! If I injure you, the King will—"
"If you don't strike me, I will execute you for wasting my time!" Vegeta roared.
The Prince was small, barely coming up to Zuto's waist, but his movements were a blur of royal aggression. He was fast. Sharper than Zuto.
Vegeta launched a volley of energy blasts. Zuto deflected them, sending them crashing into the walls.
"Pathetic!" Vegeta scoffed. He vanished, appearing behind Zuto and sweeping his legs.
Zuto crashed to the mat. Before he could rise, Vegeta's small boot was on his chest.
"You hold back because you think I am fragile," Vegeta spat, looking down at the adult warrior with supreme disgust. "It insults me."
He kicked Zuto in the ribs, hard enough to crack the armor, then stormed off toward the water station.
"Useless trash," the Prince muttered.
I watched him. The ego. The need for dominance. He was exactly as I remembered him from the show, only smaller and squeakier. Hopefully Goku can change him this time too.
I shifted my gaze to the corner.
Raditz was sitting on a bench, furiously polishing his gauntlet.
He looked terrified.
He kept glancing at Vegeta with a mixture of envy and awe, and then darting his eyes toward the other side of the room where Broly sat.
Raditz was the Omega wolf. The runt of the litter.
I looked at him and saw the future. I saw the man who would kidnap his own nephew. I saw the coward who would beg Goku for mercy and then try to kill him.
He was the "Saiyan Yamcha." Born into a warrior race, drafted into an Elite squad, but destined to be outclassed by everyone around him.
Raditz caught me looking at him. He flinched, quickly looking back down at his armor, trying to make himself invisible.
He was pitiful.
For a second, I felt a pang of sympathy.
I shook my head and turned away. I had bigger problems to manage.
--
I walked across the room toward the far wall.
Broly was sitting on the floor, his back against the metal plating.
He was isolated. There was a circle of empty space around him. They remembered the Scouter incident. They remembered the pressure.
Broly was staring at his hands. He looked calm.
He sensed me approaching. He didn't flinch like Raditz. He looked up slowly.
His dark eyes met mine.
I stopped a few feet away.
I didn't speak.
I just stood there. I let my presence be known. Calm. Steady.
I gave him a single, firm nod.
Broly stared at me for a long moment. He seemed to be searching my face, looking for the mockery he saw in Raditz or the disdain he saw in Vegeta.
He found neither.
Slowly, awkwardly, Broly nodded back.
It was a small gesture.
I didn't push it. I didn't smile. I just turned and walked away, heading for the equipment locker.
Trust wasn't built in a day.
--
Six Days Later,
Hangar 4 was vibrating with the hum of engines.
The launch platform was a hive of activity. Refueling drones buzzed around the five Attack Balls prepped for launch.
Nappa stood at the base of the ramp, his arms crossed, a scowl etched deep into his face.
"Babysitting," Nappa grumbled, kicking a loose bolt across the floor. "I'm a Commander of the Royal Army, and I'm running a daycare."
"A very lethal daycare," Ruca noted, checking the seal on her gloves. She stood beside me, her expression professional, though she stayed close.
The "Royal Youth Division" arrived.
Vegeta walked in front, his cape flowing. He looked ready to conquer the galaxy before lunch.
Raditz walked behind him, trying to mimic the Prince but failing miserably.
Broly as usual was calm and silent.
Zuto and Toma, the designated meat shields, were already loading the pods. They looked less enthusiastic than usual. They knew they were now the weakest links in the chain, save for Raditz.
"Listen up!" Nappa barked. "We're hitting Planet Shwash. Low gravity. High population. The locals are soft, but they have numbers."
He looked at the Prince.
"Vegeta, don't get cocky."
"I am never cocky," Vegeta scoffed. "I am simply superior."
"Right," Nappa rolled his eyes. "Cress, Ruca. You're on overwatch. If the kids get in trouble, intervene. But don't help them unless they're dying. They need to learn to bleed."
"Understood," I said.
Nappa gestured to the pods.
"Load up! We launch in five!"
The squad dispersed.
I walked to my pod. I placed my hand on the cold white hull.
I looked around the hangar.
This was it. The first field test.
I had an arrogant Prince who the Queen had threatened to vivisect me over if I hurt his ego.
I had a bomb named Broly who Paragus had threatened to kill me over if I provoked him.
I climbed into the seat and strapped in.
"If this goes wrong," I whispered to the console as the hatch hissed shut, "Frieza won't even need to kill me. The stress will do it first."