Time: Age 737 - Age 749 Location: The Northern Frontier (Near Jingle Village)
Survival is a funny thing. You think it's about skill or intelligence, but when you are a one-year-old alien stranded in a blizzard, it's mostly about being too stubborn to die.
My space pod became my crib, my fortress, and eventually, my pantry. The life support systems died out after the first week, leaving me in the cold silence of the mountains. But here is the thing about Saiyan biology that the anime never really went into depth about: Adaptation.
I didn't get sick. I didn't get frostbite. My skin, even as a baby, felt like high-density rubber. The cold was annoying, sure—like stepping onto a tile floor without socks—but it wasn't lethal.
The hunger, however, was a different beast.
A Saiyan metabolism is a furnace. It burns hot and fast. I learned very quickly that I couldn't survive on snow and pinecones. I needed meat. Dense, protein-rich meat.
By the time I was physically three years old (though I had been on Earth for four years—Saiyans stay small for a while before shooting up), I had depopulated the local wolf pack.
I sat by a fire I had started by striking two flints together (took me three days to figure that out, embarrassing for a guy with a college degree), roasting a leg of a Sabertooth Tiger.
I looked at my hands. They were covered in soot and dried blood. My nails were naturally sharp, almost claw-like. My hair had grown out into thick, unruly coils that defied gravity, floating slightly above my shoulders like a dark halo.
I took a bite of the tiger meat. It was tough, gamey, and lacked salt.
"Needs paprika," I muttered, my voice raspy from disuse.
I spoke out loud to myself constantly. I had to. If I didn't, I was terrified I'd forget how to speak English. Or worse, I'd forget who I was. Renso. I am Renso. I am not a wild animal. I am a reincarnated human who used to work in IT.
But looking around my cave, decorated with animal skulls and a bed made of furs, I looked less like an IT guy and more like a villain's origin story.
The Ecology of the NorthThe Northern Mountains of Earth aren't just empty snow. Dragon Ball Earth is weird. It's a mishmash of prehistoric biology and futuristic tech.
The ecosystem here was brutal. First, you had the Snow Bears. Massive, white-furred monstrosities the size of dump trucks. They were slow but hit like freight trains. Then, you had the Pterosaurs. Yes, dinosaurs. In the snow. Don't ask me how cold-blooded reptiles survived in sub-zero temps; I assume it's the same logic that lets a dog become King of the World. They nested in the high cliffs and would swoop down to snatch mountain goats. Or me.
And then, there was the Red Ribbon Army.
I first encountered them when I was seven.
I was crouching on a ridge, watching a convoy of tanks roll through the valley below. They were grey and bulky, stamped with the red "RR" logo.
'The Red Ribbon Army,' I thought, a chill going down my spine that had nothing to do with the snow. 'They're looking for the Dragon Balls.'
I knew the timeline. Or at least, I thought I did. If the Red Ribbon Army was this far north, they were likely looking for the bustling Jingle Village or searching for Dr. Gero's lab.
I watched a soldier hop out of a tank to relieve himself in a snowbank. He had a machine gun slung over his shoulder.
I wanted that gun. Not to use it, but to take it apart. To see how it worked. I missed technology. I missed metal that wasn't scrap from my pod.
I moved.
I didn't know how to suppress my Ki—I barely knew what Ki was outside of a concept—but I knew how to be quiet. I moved like a shadow across the ice.
When the soldier turned around, I was standing five feet away. A seven-year-old boy with wild dreadlocks, wearing a loincloth made of wolf fur, staring at him with golden-black eyes.
"Holy—!" the soldier shouted, fumbling for his weapon.
He fired. Rat-tat-tat-tat!
The bullets hit my chest. They felt like bee stings. Annoying, itchy, but they bounced off, flattening against my skin and falling into the snow.
The soldier's jaw dropped. The cigarette fell from his mouth. "M-monster..."
I tilted my head. "Do you have any chocolate?" I asked in perfect, unaccented Japanese.
The soldier screamed and scrambled back into the tank. The hatch slammed shut. The convoy revved its engines and sped off, kicking up clouds of snow.
"Rude," I sighed, picking up a flattened bullet. "I just wanted a snack."
The Legend of the "Yet-Li"Over the years, I developed a relationship with the locals. Specifically, the people of North City Outskirts, a small logging settlement at the base of the mountain.
They didn't know I was a boy. They thought I was a cryptid.
The rumors started when I saved a logging truck from sliding off a cliff. I had just grabbed the bumper and pulled it back onto the road. The driver saw a "hairy demon with a tail" and gunned it.
After that, the villagers started leaving offerings at the trailhead.
It started with raw meat. I ate it. Then, they left blankets. I took them. Then, one day, I found a crate of items. Canned peaches. A pair of oversized cargo pants. A flannel shirt. And, most importantly, a stack of magazines.
Weekly Shonen Jump. Daily North City News. Capsule Corp Tech Monthly.
I sat on my rock throne, wearing the flannel shirt (which was huge on me, but comfortable) and read the magazines cover to cover.
This was my window to the world.
I learned that Capsule Corp was dominating the stock market. I learned that Mr. Satan was winning meaningless tournaments in the south. I learned that the King of Earth was a dog. (Still weird to see in print).
But the most important thing I learned was the date.
Age 749.
"Goku is twelve," I whispered to the empty cave. "It's starting."
The Hardware ProblemBy the time I turned twelve, I had grown. A lot.
I stood at 5'9", tall for a pre-teen, with a build that was pure, dense muscle. My dreadlocks hung to the middle of my back now, kept tied back with a leather cord. I had looted enough "offerings" to have a decent wardrobe: heavy combat boots, cargo pants, and a thick bomber jacket with a fur collar.
I looked less like a wild child and more like a rugged survivor from a post-apocalyptic movie.
But there was one problem. One massive, glaring issue that kept me up at night.
I was grounded.
I stood on the edge of the highest peak, the wind whipping my hair. I closed my eyes and focused on my stomach, where the Chakra/Ki/Energy/Magic was supposed to be.
"Fly," I commanded.
Nothing.
"Hover? Just a little bit?"
My boots stayed firmly planted on the granite.
"Okay, energy blast. Kamehameha. Galick Gun. Spirit Gun. Hadouken. Anything!"
I thrust my palm out. I visualized the energy. I screamed until my throat was raw.
The only result was a small puff of steam from my hand.
I kicked a boulder in frustration, sending it sailing three miles into the valley below.
"This is ridiculous!" I yelled at the sky. "I have the power level! I can feel it! It's like an ocean inside me, but there's no faucet! How does Goku do this on instinct? Is it because he hit his head? Do I need brain damage to fly?"
The truth was, without a teacher to unlock my Ki channels or show me the sensation, I was just a biological tank. I had infinite gas but no ignition.
My power was entirely physical. I could bench press a mountain. I could outrun a jet. My reflexes were faster than lightning. But I couldn't project energy.
And that scared me. Because I knew who was out there. Frieza. Cell. Buu. Guys who could blow up the planet from orbit. Being strong wasn't enough if I couldn't leave the ground.
The Call to AdventureIt was a Tuesday when the paper changed my life.
I was down at the offering rock, picking up my weekly tribute (a basket of apples and a roasted chicken—the villagers really loved me now because I kept the bears away). Under the chicken was a flyer.
THE 21st TENKAICHI BUDOKAI Calling all Martial Artists! Grand Prize: 500,000 Zeni! Location: Papaya Island.
I stared at the flyer. The ink was smudged with grease.
"This is it," I murmured. "This is the one. Master Roshi. Goku. Krillin."
If I went there, I could find a teacher. I could find someone to explain why my energy felt like a pressurized bomb that I couldn't defuse.
But Papaya Island was in the South. Thousands of miles away.
I looked at the flyer, then at my cave. I looked at my stash of stolen anime figures (don't ask) and my comfortable bed of furs.
"I need money," I rationalized. "500,000 Zeni buys a lot of spicy chicken buns."
I packed my things. A small Capsule Corp backpack I'd found in a wreck. I packed jerky, a water skin, and the Dragon Ball radar... wait, no, I didn't have a radar. I just had a compass.
I walked to the edge of the cliff.
I couldn't fly. But I had been practicing something else.
I crouched low, the rock beneath my boots splintering under the pressure. I focused all that frustration, all that explosive power, into my legs.
"Super Jump," I grunted.
BOOM.
The mountaintop shattered. I launched myself into the stratosphere. The air thinned. The clouds whipped past me in a blur. For a moment, at the apex of the arc, I was weightless. I could see the curve of the Earth. I could see the sprawling forests and the distant cities.
I began to fall, angling my body like a missile toward the south.
I wasn't flying. I was falling with style. And I was coming for the plot.
World Building Notes: The Journey SouthThe trip took me three days. Not because I was slow, but because I got distracted.
I landed in Central City first. It was my first time in a real city since my death. The noise. The cars. The smell of exhaust. It was intoxicating.
I walked through the streets, a tall, dark-skinned kid with wild hair and a tail tucked into his pants, staring at everything.
I saw a Capsule Corp billboard featuring Dr. Briefs. I saw a news report about a "Demon King" rumor that turned out to be a hoax (foreshadowing). I bought a hot dog from a vendor using Zeni I'd looted from a bandit camp.
" Mustard?" the vendor asked, eyeing my scar-covered arms.
"Everything," I said. "Put everything on it."
As I ate, I heard people talking.
"Did you hear? The King's Castle was attacked by a kid with a tail."
"No way. Another one?"
My ears perked up. Goku. He had already done the Pilaf arc. He had turned into a Great Ape and destroyed Pilaf's castle. The timeline was moving.
I finished the hot dog in one bite.
"I'm late," I muttered.
I crouched in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the startled screams of pedestrians, and launched myself into the air again.
Next stop: Papaya Island.