Ruca let go of my hand, a sharp, satisfied grin cutting across her face. It looked like the smile of a true friend.
She turned to leave, adjusting her gloves.
"One question," I called out, stopping her.
Ruca paused, glancing back over her shoulder. "Make it quick. I have to report to Nappa."
"Why?" I asked. The question had been gnawing at me. "You're the Commander's daughter. You're an Elite. Why risk your standing? Why lie to your father for a Low Class mechanic?"
I waited for the answer.
Ruca scoffed, rolling her eyes.
"Because I am bored, Cress."
She gestured vaguely at the palace, at the barracks, at the stars.
"Do you know what it's like talking to Nappa? Or my brother? It's like talking to rocks. 'Glory this, King Cold that.' They are puppets."
She stepped closer, her eyes gleaming with that dangerous curiosity.
"But you... You're hiding something. You're weak, but you survive. You lie to the King's face. You're the only thing on this entire miserable planet that isn't predictable."
She shrugged.
"If you die, I go back to being bored. And I hate being bored."
She waved a hand dismissively. "See you at training, Cress."
She walked away, vanishing into the shadows of the corridor.
I stood there, alone in the cold wind.
The warmth of the handshake evaporated instantly. The "friendship" I had started to build in my head shattered like cheap glass.
Boredom.
That was it.
The memory of the hangar crashed back into my mind. I saw her shoving the chest piece into my arms. I heard her voice, cold and amused. "Put it on. Let's see if you bounce." "If it breaks, we know."
For a few moments..,..I had forgotten where I was.
She hadn't changed. Not really. She never did. I just forgot who she was.
She didn't save me because she cared about my life. She saved me because she didn't want her favorite toy to be broken.
"I'm just a toy, a pet," I whispered to the empty air.
A bitter laugh escaped my lips.
It was perfect, actually. If she thought I was just entertainment, she wouldn't look too closely at what I was really building. She wouldn't see the knife until I was ready to use it.
I looked up at the tower where Zarbon slept.
"Fine," I said, my voice hardening. "I'll be your entertainment, Ruca. Just make sure you don't get too close to the stage."
I turned and walked back to my quarters.
--
Hangar 4 smelled of burnt lubricant, and the lingering copper scent of violence from the previous day's gear.
I was already at work before the first sun breached the horizon. I stood on the maintenance scaffold of Nappa's Attack Ball, scrubbing a stubborn scorch mark off the white hull with a wire brush.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
The rhythmic noise was grounding. It drowned out the thoughts swirling in my head.
Boredom.
That single word had recontextualized my entire existence here. I wasn't a partner. I wasn't a friend. I was a court jester who happened to be good at dodging.
"Look alive, maggots!"
The booming voice of Nappa echoed off the metal walls.
I didn't flinch. I just tightened my grip on the brush and turned around, pasting a mask of professional subservience onto my face.
The squad walked in. Zuto was laughing at something Toma had said, miming a decapitation motion. They looked relaxed, eager.
And then there was Ruca.
She walked slightly behind Nappa, her posture perfect, her armor gleaming under the harsh hangar lights. She looked every inch the Elite warrior.
When my eyes landed on her, a wave of genuine nausea rolled in my gut. It was a physical revulsion. I saw the handshake in the moonlight. I heard the promise to "make the King regret it." And then I saw it for what it was: a game.
She looked up. Her eyes met mine.
She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, our secret signal.
I didn't return it.
I climbed down from the scaffold, wiping my hands on a rag. I walked up to the group, keeping my eyes fixed on Nappa's boots.
"Commander," I said, my voice steady, devoid of any inflection. "Unit 712 is prepped. I recalibrated the atmospheric scrubbers as requested."
I turned slightly to Ruca. I didn't look her in the eye. I looked at her chin.
"Cadet Ruca. Good morning. Your pod's diagnostics are green."
Ruca paused. She tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowing. She was expecting the conspiratorial glance, the shared burden of our "secret war." Instead, she got the hollow politeness of a service droid.
"You're stiff today, Cress," she noted, her tone casual but probing.
"Just focused, Cadet," I replied, turning back to Nappa. "There is a lot of work to be done."
Ruca frowned. She sensed something. It felt... off. Like a gear that wasn't catching. But she shrugged it off.
'He's probably just stressed about the King,' she reasoned.
"Focus is good!" Nappa roared, slapping me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth. "You'll need it. Form up, squad! Briefing time!"
Zuto and Toma fell in line. Ruca stepped beside them. I stood off to the side, ready to return to my scrubbing.
"You too, Runt," Nappa barked. "Get in line."
I froze. "Sir? I'm maintenance."
"Not for this one," Nappa grinned. It was a wide, shark-like expression that promised pain.
I stepped into the line, a cold knot forming in my stomach.
Nappa paced in front of us, his hands clasped behind his back.
"The King is pleased with our efficiency on Arlia," Nappa began. "But efficiency is boring. He wants conquest. Real conquest."
He stopped pacing and looked at us with gleaming eyes.
"We have been assigned to the next rotation. Frontline assault."
"Planet Meat."
My breath hitched.
Planet Meat.
In the lore, this was where Bardock's squad met their end. It was a meat grinder. High gravity. Savage local population with energy projection capabilities. It was a graveyard for the unprepared.
'Is this non canon timeline ? if it is then it's way too early for them to mention planet meat,' I thought,'or it's simply a coincidence.'
"We leave in three weeks," Nappa continued. "The planet is on the outer rim of the sector. It's a long haul, so we aren't taking the transport."
He gestured to the Attack Balls lining the wall.
"Individual pods. We land, we purge, we wait for the Frieza Force collection crew."
I saw my opening. I did want to get stronger but I was not going to walk into death's embrace on my own.
"Commander," I spoke up, keeping my voice deferential. "If we are taking individual Attack Balls, there is no capacity for a maintenance officer. The pods are single-occupant. I should remain here to prepare the retrieval bay for your return."
It was a logical, sound argument. It was my ticket out of the slaughter.
Nappa chuckled. It was a low, rumbling sound.
"I thought so too, Runt. Told the King I didn't want to waste a pod on baggage."
Nappa leaned in, his face inches from mine. He smelled of raw meat and violence.
"But the King insisted."
My blood ran cold.
"He read the report," Nappa said, his voice mocking. "He saw that you survived Arlia. He saw your power level jumped to 210. He thinks you've... 'hardened.' He told me, 'If the boy can fight, put him on the line. We need every able body for Meat.'"
Nappa straightened up, laughing.
"Congratulations, Cress. You're not just a mechanic anymore. You're a grunt. Try not to die in the first five minutes; it takes weeks to scrub the smell of failure out of the armor."
I stared straight ahead.
The King hadn't been fooled. Or maybe he just didn't care. He was sending me to Planet Meat because he knew the odds were astronomical. A power level of 210 on Planet Meat was a death sentence. It was a mathematically guaranteed execution.
"Dismissed!" Nappa barked. "Get your gear ready. Three weeks!"
The squad broke formation. Zuto and Toma were high-fiving, excited for the violence.
Ruca walked past me. She paused, leaning in close.
"Planet Meat," she whispered, a thrill in her voice. "That's a real challenge, Cress. If we survive this, we'll be legends."
She sounded excited. She sounded like she was looking forward to the game.
I didn't look at her.
"Yes," I said deadpan. "Legends."
I walked away. I needed to scrub a pod. I needed to scrub until my hands bled.
--
That night, the Blind Spot felt colder than usual.
I was there early. I wasn't sitting. I was stretching, my movements jerky and aggressive.
Ruca dropped from the wall.
"Three weeks," she said, landing lightly. "We need to work on your offensive pressure. Your defense is good, but on Meat, if you don't kill them fast, they swarm you."
I didn't answer.
I flared my Ki.
I didn't hold it at 210. I pushed it. 400. 700. 1200
I launched myself at her.
There was no bow. No "ready?" No warning.
I closed the distance in a blur, aiming a kick directly at her neck.
Ruca's eyes widened. She brought her arm up to block, absorbing the impact. She skidded back a foot, surprise etched on her face.
"Whoa!" she laughed. "Eager tonight?"
I didn't speak. I spun, using the momentum to drive a fist into her gut.
She parried it, but I was already moving.
I flickered out of existence.
Usually, I used the Afterimage to retreat. To hide.
Not tonight.
I appeared directly behind her, my knee driving into her kidney.
Thud.
It connected. Ruca gasped, stumbling forward.
She spun around, her expression shifting from surprise to a fierce grin.
"Okay," she said, wiping a bit of dirt from her cheek. "So that's how it is. You're scared of the mission? Or are you just finally waking up?"
She charged.
We fought for an hour. It wasn't sparring. It was a brawl.
I didn't use the soft, redirecting palms style. I used elbows. I used knees. I used dirty fighting. I threw dust in her face. I used my tail to trip her.
I fought with hate.
I hated the King. I hated Zarbon. But mostly, in that moment, I hated her. I hated that she was enjoying this. I hated that to her, my desperate struggle for survival was just a "good session."
I caught her with a solid cross to the jaw. It snapped her head back.
Ruca stumbled, shaking her head. She spat a little blood onto the ground.
She looked at me, beaming.
"Yes!" she shouted, her tail lashing with excitement. "That's it, Cress! No more hesitation! You're finally fighting like a Saiyan!"
She thought it was instinct. She thought it was the warrior spirit rising to the challenge of death.
She didn't see the disgust. She didn't see the betrayal.
"Again," I rasped, raising my fists.
We went until my Ki ran dry.
"Same time tomorrow," Ruca said, breathing heavily but looking invigorated. She patted my shoulder as she left. "Keep that fire, Cress. It suits you."
She vaulted over the wall and vanished.
I stood alone in the dark, my chest heaving, sweat dripping from my nose.
"Fire," I muttered, spitting on the ground where she had stood. "It's not."
--
I waited until I was sure she was gone. Then I walked deeper into the wastelands, far away from the palace sensors.
Three weeks.
I had three weeks to bridge the gap between "Lucky Mechanic" and "Survivor."
Raw power wouldn't do it. My growth curve was good, but it wasn't miraculous. I couldn't hit 2,000 in three weeks.
I needed utility. I needed cheats.
I sat on a rock, closing my eyes. I searched my memories of the show.
What did the humans do when they were outclassed?
Taiyoken. Solar Flare.
Tien's technique. It didn't require massive power; it required converting Ki into pure, blinding light.
"Hands to the face," I whispered. "Visualize the sun."
I stood up. I spread my fingers and brought them to my temples.
"Solar... Flare!"
I pushed my Ki into my eyes and forehead.
Fzzzt.
A weak, yellow light sputtered around my head. It looked like a dying flashlight.
My eyes burned, and a sharp headache spiked behind my temples.
"Pathetic," I hissed.
It wasn't just about dumping energy. It was about frequency. I had to vibrate the Ki so fast it became photons.
I shook my head and tried again.
"Solar Flare!"
Fzzzt.
Nothing. Just a warm glow that wouldn't blind a mole, let alone a warrior.
I dropped my hands, frustration bubbling in my chest.
"Okay. Plan B."
Sokidan. Spirit Ball.
Yamcha's technique. A dense, controllable ball of Ki. If I could master this, I could hit enemies from behind cover. I could distract them. I could fight without exposing myself.
I held my right hand up, palm open.
"Concentrate," I told myself. "Don't just blast it. Shape it."
I drew the energy out. I visualized a sphere. Dense. Rotating.
A yellow ball formed in my palm. It was shaky, the edges fuzzy and leaking energy.
"Now... move it."
I tried to use my mind to guide the ball upward.
The moment I pushed my will against the energy, the structure collapsed.
BOOM.
The ball detonated in my face.
I was thrown backward, skidding across the dirt. My eyebrows were singed, and my face felt like it had been slapped with a hot iron.
I lay there in the dust, staring up at the indifferent stars.
I had no teacher. I had no manual. I was just a fanboy trying to replicate magic tricks from memory while a ticking clock counted down to my execution.
"Three weeks," I whispered to the empty sky.
I sat up, wiping the soot from my face.
I wasn't going to quit. I couldn't.
I raised my hands to my temples again.
"Solar Flare."
--
Light years away from the dust and desperation of Planet Vegeta, the air was perfectly filtered.
Zarbon sat in his personal quarters aboard Frieza's flagship. The room was a sanctuary of elegance, white marble floors, gold trimmings, and a viewport that looked out onto the silent, velvet black of deep space.
He swirled a glass of vintage wine, watching the crimson liquid coat the crystal.
"Enter," Zarbon said softly, not turning his head.
The door hissed open. A nervous soldier from the intel division stepped in, clutching a datapad. He bowed so low his nose nearly touched the floor.
"Lord Zarbon. The weekly surveillance report from the Saiyan sector."
"Place it on the desk," Zarbon ordered. "And tell me... did the King bite?"
The soldier hesitated. "Uh... bite, my Lord?"
Zarbon sighed, setting his glass down. "Did King Vegeta execute the Low Class mechanic I claimed as property? Did he snap? Did he give us a reason?"
"No, my Lord," the soldier stammered. "The subject, Unit Two... Cress... remains active. There is no record of execution or imprisonment within the palace."
Zarbon drummed his fingers on the armrest.
"Disappointing."
He had laid the trap with such care. It wasn't merely boredom that led him to pick a pet from the hangar. It was a calculated provocation.
King Cold had a soft spot for the monkeys. He viewed them as blunt, effective instruments of conquest. But Lord Frieza... Frieza saw something else. He saw a infestation. He saw a "Legend" that, while ridiculous, was annoying.
Frieza wanted the Saiyans gone. But he couldn't simply blow up his father's favorite toys without justification. He needed insubordination. He needed a spark.
Zarbon had tried to provide that spark. By elevating a piece of trash to the Royal Sector, by rubbing the King's nose in his own subservience, Zarbon had hoped Vegeta's famous pride would crack. If the King had killed Cress, Zarbon's "property", it would have been an act of treason. A valid reason for Frieza to step in and purge the leadership.
But the old monkey had been surprisingly restrained.
"He held his temper," Zarbon mused. "Smart."
"There is... one update, my Lord," the soldier added, checking the pad. "While the King did not execute the boy, he has reassigned him."
Zarbon raised an eyebrow. "Reassigned?"
"To the Meat conquest. Frontline assault. Commander Nappa's squad."
A slow, cold smile spread across Zarbon's beautiful face.
"Planet Meat," Zarbon chuckled. "I see. The King is more subtle than I gave him credit for. He doesn't want to kill the boy himself, so he sends him to a graveyard."
"Shall we intervene, my Lord?" the soldier asked. "The asset is marked as your personal property. We could order a recall."
Zarbon picked up his wine glass again. He thought of the mechanic. The boy had been quiet. Efficient. Surprisingly competent at removing stains.
But he was just a tool. And tools were replaceable.
"No," Zarbon decided, taking a sip. "Let him go. If the King wants to dispose of his trash in a warzone, let him. It saves me the trouble of doing it later."
He looked out the viewport, watching a distant star flicker.
"Besides," Zarbon murmured, a hint of genuine curiosity coloring his tone. "That boy survived the interrogation. He is... resilient."
"My Lord?"
"The odds of a Low Class surviving Planet Meat are less than one percent," Zarbon said, dismissing the soldier with a wave of his hand. "So assume he is dead. Clear his file from my registry."
The soldier bowed and turned to leave.
"But," Zarbon whispered to the empty room as the door hissed shut.
"If he does walk off that planet..."
Zarbon swirled the wine one last time.
"...then perhaps he is more than just a pet."
He drank the wine, savoring the taste. The trap had failed, but the game was still in motion. And on the great board of the universe, a pawn that refused to die was always worth watching.
--
Haha, you really thought she was nice, hahahahahaha.
Well I don't know if you hated this chapter or liked it, but either way that means I did a good job.
See you tomorrow.
I wish I could do like the other authors when they say, they'll drop a bonus chapter with a certain amount of power stones but I ain't got time, I also need to make sure the novel is heading in a good direction since I only have the ending in mind, not the process.