Today is Sunday (or Monday depending on where you live ), so it's also a double release. Hope you had a great weekend.
--
The walk back from the Royal Plaza was a funeral procession in all but name.
The Elite Garl Unit marched in perfect formation, boots striking the pavement in unison, but the air around us was brittle. It felt as if the atmosphere of Planet Vegeta had been replaced by something heavier, something colder.
The malice of Frieza's presence lingered, seeping into the stone and the skin.
I walked beside Ruca. She was staring straight ahead, her jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscles jumping in her cheek. The new blue Scouter Frieza had "gifted" us sat over her left ear, humming with a faint, unfamiliar frequency.
I wore mine too. It felt like a parasite clinging to my temple.
We reached the Garl Estate. The heavy blast doors hissed open, and we stepped into the sanctuary of the Elite barracks.
As soon as the doors sealed behind us, the silence broke.
Ruca ripped her helmet off and threw it onto her bed. It bounced off the silk sheets and clattered to the floor.
"Monkeys," she hissed, pacing the room like a caged tiger. "He called us monkeys to our faces! Did you see the King? He was on his knees! It's—"
I moved.
I crossed the room in a blur of motion that would have been invisible to a Low Class warrior.
I slammed my hand over her mouth.
Ruca froze. Her eyes went wide, flashing with instant aggression. She grabbed my wrist, ready to flip me, ready to fight.
I stared into her eyes. My expression wasn't angry; it was terrified.
I shook my head slowly, violently.
I raised my free hand and pointed to the blue device on my ear. Then I pointed to the one on hers.
Ruca paused. She looked at the Scouter. Then back at me. Confusion clouded her anger, but she stopped struggling.
I slowly removed my hand from her mouth. I pressed a finger to my lips.
Shh.
I walked to my desk. My movements were deliberate, heavy. I unclipped the blue Scouter from my head and placed it gently on the surface. It looked innocent enough, sleek, modern, efficient.
I pulled my toolkit from my belt.
Ruca walked over, watching me. She opened her mouth to ask what I was doing.
I shot her a glare so sharp it killed the words in her throat.
I bent over the device.
The casing was seamless, designed to be tamper-proof. A standard mechanic would have tried to unscrew the casing and triggered the anti-tamper lock. But I knew Frieza Force tech. I knew their architecture.
Click.
The casing popped open.
The internals were advanced. The sensor grid was compact, the processor faster than anything we produced on Vegeta.
But I wasn't looking for the scanner.
I pushed aside the main circuit board.
There, nested deep between the long-range transmitter and the backup power core, was a secondary chip.
It was tiny, black, and pulsing with a rhythmic, faint violet light that persisted even after I had cut the main power. It had its own independent battery.
I pointed at it with the tweezers.
Ruca leaned in. She frowned. She didn't recognize it.
I grabbed a piece of paper and a stylus from the desk.
I wrote three words.
FRIEZA IS LISTENING.
I slid the paper to her.
Ruca read it. She blinked. She looked at the chip, then at the paper, then at me. Her mouth opened in shock.
"How did you—" she started to whisper.
I slapped my hand over her mouth again. Harder this time.
I shook my head. I pointed to the chip. Then I pointed to the ceiling. Then I pointed to the sky.
I wrote again, my hand moving furiously.
Audio transmission. Constant stream. Encrypted. They hear everything. Even whispers. Do not speak.
Ruca stared at the note. Her face drained of color.
She looked at her own Scouter, still clipped to her ear. She reached up slowly, her hand trembling, and unclipped it. She set it on the desk as if it were a live grenade.
The realization hit her like a physical blow.
The King. The Commanders. Nappa. Every soldier in the plaza. They were all wearing them. They were all venting their rage, cursing the lizard, planning rebellion in the privacy of their barracks.
And Frieza was listening to every word.
It wasn't a gift. It was a leash.
Ruca grabbed the stylus. Her handwriting was jagged, angry.
What do we do?
I looked at the chip. I looked at the door.
We couldn't destroy them. If the signals went dead en masse, Frieza would know we found them. We couldn't speak.
We had to go up the chain.
I wrote one last thing.
Get your father.
--
Commander Garl was a man of stone and discipline, but when I showed him the chip, the stone cracked.
We stood in his private study. I had disassembled his Scouter as well. Three open devices sat on his mahogany desk, three violet lights pulsing in sync.
Garl read my notes. He looked at the tech. He didn't ask questions. He didn't doubt. He knew my record with machines. If I said it was a wiretap, it was a wiretap.
He silently motioned for us to follow.
The walk to the Palace was excruciating. Every soldier we passed was wearing a blue Scouter. I could hear them grumbling about the inspection, about Frieza's arrogance.
'Shut up,' I wanted to scream. You're digging your own graves.
We reached the Throne Room.
The guards tried to stop us, but Garl flashed his clearance override. We pushed through the heavy doors.
King Vegeta was there. He wasn't sitting. He was pacing the dais, his cape swirling around him. Nappa stood nearby, nursing a flask, while Paragus huddled in the corner looking like a broken man.
"Garl?" King Vegeta snapped, stopping his pacing. "I did not summon you. And why is the mutant here?"
He glared at me.
I didn't wait for permission. I didn't bow.
I walked straight to the center of the room.
"Boy!" Nappa barked. "Show some respect!"
I ignored him. I knelt on the red carpet. I pulled the disassembled Scouter pieces from my pouch and laid them out on the floor. The violet chip pulsed in the dim light of the Throne Room.
I pulled out the paper note I had written in the barracks.
I slid it across the floor until it touched the King's boot.
King Vegeta stared at me, his lip curling in irritation. He looked down at the paper.
He read it.
He froze.
The irritation vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp stillness.
He looked at the chip on the floor. He looked at the blue Scouter sitting on his own throne armrest.
He picked up the Scouter. He looked at it with a mixture of horror and dawning comprehension.
He crushed the paper note in his hand. His fist shook. His face turned a deep, violent purple.
He opened his mouth to roar. To scream his rage at the sky.
I looked him in the eye and shook my head. No.
The King caught himself. He swallowed the scream. He was paranoid, yes, but he was also cunning. He realized the trap instantly. If he raged now, Frieza would hear it.
He looked at me.
For years, I had been the Low Class mechanic. The spy. The loose end he wanted to cut.
But in this moment, looking at the tiny violet light that would have doomed his entire race, King Vegeta saw something else.
He saw an asset.
He saw a creature who moved in silence, who understood the enemy's technology better than his own engineers, and who, crucially, had brought this to him instead of using it to buy favor with Frieza.
The mutant is loyal, the King's eyes seemed to say. And he is terrifyingly smart.
The room was dead silent. Nappa looked confused. Paragus looked terrified.
King Vegeta took a deep breath. He composed himself. He knew there could be other bugs. He knew he had to play the role.
"You have done a service to the Empire, Elite Cress," the King said. His voice was calm, regal, but his eyes were burning with intensity. "Your diligence in... inspecting the new equipment... is noted."
He stepped down from the dais. He stopped in front of me.
"The Empire rewards competence," King Vegeta said. "Name your reward."
I kept my head bowed.
I had planned for this. I had been planning for this since I saw the ship descend.
I pulled a second piece of paper from my sleeve. I had written it in the transport on the way over.
I held it up.
Permission to leave orbit. Solo. 48 hours. Personal training.
The King took the paper. He read it.
He raised an eyebrow.
It was a strange request. Usually, warriors asked for credits, for land, for slaves. To ask for a two-day vacation to train alone in space? It was almost trivial.
But the King looked at me. He saw the desperation in my posture. He saw the calculation.
He didn't know what I was planning. But he knew that whatever I did, it likely wasn't good for Frieza.
"Granted," King Vegeta said, handing the paper back. "Take a pod. Go to the training grounds on the outer moon. Or wherever you see fit. Return stronger."
I bowed low, my forehead touching the cold stone.
"Thank you, Sire," I whispered, barely audible.
I stood up. I gathered the Scouter pieces.
I turned and walked out.
As the doors closed, I saw King Vegeta pick up his own Scouter. He didn't put it on. He placed it carefully in a heavy lead box by the throne and closed the lid.
The game had changed. The blindfold was off.
--
Hangar 4 was quiet, the wind whistling through the docking clamps.
I stood before a standard Attack Ball. I had stripped it of any tracking software I could find, physically severing the locater beacon.
I was packing light. A few nutrient bars. A spare combat suit. My toolkit.
"Where are we going?"
I stiffened. I didn't turn around.
"I am going," I said. "You are staying."
Ruca stood at the base of the ramp. She was fully geared up, her bag thrown over her shoulder. She looked ready for war.
When I said the words, she flinched as if I had slapped her.
"Excuse me?" Ruca stepped forward, her voice rising. "If you're going off-world to train, I'm coming. Who's going to watch your back?"
I turned to face her.
She looked frustrated. Hurt.
For six years, we had been inseparable. We were the "Garl Unit Anomalies." We trained together, ate together, bled together. In her mind, this was just another mission.
"Not where I'm going," I said coldly. "This is solo training. Deep meditation. I don't need a sparring partner."
"I'm not just a sparring partner!" Ruca snapped. "I'm your—"
She stopped. She didn't finish the sentence. The words hung in the silence between us, Friend? Partner? Equal?
"I'm the only one who can keep up with you," she finished weakly, the fire in her eyes dimming into something pleading.
I looked at her.
The calculation hit me in an instant.
If I took her, she wasn't just accompanying a trainee; she was becoming a deserter. Her father, Garl, would be held responsible. Frieza didn't accept resignations, and he certainly didn't accept loose ends. Garl would be executed. Nappa would be sent to hunt us down. And most importantly Frieza would have his attention on me.
I had to break it. I couldn't just say no. I had to sever the limb to save the body. I had to make her want to stay.
"You think we're partners?" I asked, injecting a lethal dose of cold amusement into my voice.
Ruca blinked, stepping back. "We've watched each other's backs for six years, Cress."
"Because you were bored," I countered, throwing her own words from the Blind Spot back in her face. "You told me yourself, Ruca. I was a toy. Something unpredictable to pass the time."
I stepped closer, looming over her. I let the contempt bleed into my expression.
"You didn't pick me because you cared. You put me in that white armor on day one hoping I would break. You tried to kill me, Ruca."
"Did you think I had forgotten? Did you think six years of sparring erased the fact that you looked at me and saw a punching bag?"
Ruca recoiled as if physically struck. Her face drained of color. "That was... I didn't..."
"I never trusted you," I said, my eyes dead. "I used you. I needed a shield against the King, and the Commander's daughter was the perfect cover. But now? I don't need a shield. And I certainly don't need a babysitter."
I turned my back on her and walked to the pod.
"Stay here. Keep your Scouter off. Keep your head down. I'll be back in two days."
"Cress, wait—"
I didn't listen. I climbed into the pod and punched the launch sequence.
The hatch hissed shut, severing the connection. Through the red-tinted viewport, I saw her standing there on the tarmac.
She wasn't angry anymore. She looked shattered. She stood with her arms hanging limp at her sides, watching me like she was watching a stranger.
A strange tightness gripped my chest. It wasn't physical. It was a dull, aching pressure in the center of my being, the weight of the bridge I had just burned.
"Launch," I commanded.
The thrusters fired. The G-force slammed me back.
Ruca shrank into a tiny dot, then vanished as I punched through the cloud layer.
I was alone.
"Course set," I whispered. "Planet Hurul. Trade Colony 7."
--
Planet Hurul was a neutral ground in the Frieza sector, a trade hub built on the ruins of an older civilization. It was a grey, industrial world of smog and neon lights, where credits meant more than allegiance.
I didn't land at the main spaceport. I brought the pod down in the Badlands, a desolate expanse of rocky spires a hundred miles from the city limits.
The landing was rough. Dust plumed around the pod as I crashed into a canyon floor.
I kicked the hatch open and stepped out.
It was silent. Perfect. I checked my surroundings, no one.
"Okay," I said, cracking my neck. "Time to pay the price."
I walked to the center of a flat plateau.
I closed my eyes. I centered my breathing.
I had practiced this for three years. I had strained against myself, trying to tear my spirit in two. I had managed brief flickers. Ghostly images.
But I had succeeded, and today, it was time to use it.
I grabbed the energy inside me with my mind.
And I pulled.
"HAAAAAAA!"
The scream ripped from my throat.
My aura exploded, a blinding column of white fire.
The ground cracked beneath me.
My vision split.
For a second, I saw double. Two horizons. Two skies.
The pain peaked, a searing, agony in my chest, and then...
Snap.
The pressure vanished.
I stumbled, falling to one knee.
I gasped for air, clutching my chest. I felt light. Too light. Hollow.
I looked up.
Standing in front of me, looking down with an expression of exhausted triumph, was... me.
He, I, wore the same black and gold armor. He had the same ponytail. The same dark eyes.
"We did it," the Clone said. His voice was my voice.
It was disorienting. I was seeing myself from the outside, and seeing the outside from myself, simultaneously. It was like processing two video feeds on one monitor.
I checked my power.
My base was 20,000.
Now?
I felt the drain.
Main Body: 11,000. Clone Body: 9,000.
I had cut myself in half. "Nah I'd win" my clone said.
"I feel weak," the Clone muttered, flexing his hands. "Only 9,000. Nappa could give me a hard time."
He was fragile.
If he died... if someone vaporized him... that 9,000 Ki wouldn't return to me. It would be gone. I would be permanently crippled. Though my soul would be intact. But if I recalled him before he died, it would return to me but I had to be careful.
I pulled a heavy cloak from my bag and threw it over my shoulders, hiding the Saiyan armor. I pulled the hood up.
I turned toward the distant glow of the trade city on the horizon.
I looked at the stars. Somewhere out there, in the North Galaxy, was a tiny blue mudball where a Low Class baby named Kakarot would land in 5 years.
The Clone walked to the Attack Ball and put the scouter on, now clean.
"Don't get me killed," I called out.
"Don't get us killed," the Clone replied.
He climbed in. The pod launched, streaking back toward the sky.
I watched him go until he was just a star among stars.
I was half the man I used to be. My power was halved.
But I was free.
I turned and began the long walk toward the city.
I checked the credit chit in my pocket, my life savings, scavenged and stolen over ten years. Though, elite pay has been rather generous.
"Let's go shopping," I whispered.
--
The neon lights of Trade Colony 7 reflected off the oily puddles on the street, painting the grime in shades of pink and electric blue.
I moved through the crowd, my cloak pulled tight. I was just another drifter with credits to burn.
I found the shipyard in the lower district. It was a sprawling lot filled with atmospheric skiffs, rusted cargo haulers, and decommissioned military frigates.
A salesman scuttled out to meet me. He was a short, insectoid creature with twitching antennae and a nervous smile.
"Welcome, traveler! Welcome!" the insectoid chirped, rubbing his hands together. "Looking for speed? Capacity? Stealth?"
"Range," I said, my voice muffled by the hood. "And style."
I walked past a row of bulky freighters and stopped.
There it was.
It looked exactly like a certain hunk of junk that made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs.
My inner fanboy wept tears of joy.
"Ah!" the salesman buzzed, scurrying over. "The YT-Model Freighter! A classic! Vintage design. She's fast, she's iconic, she's—"
"How much?" I interrupted, running a gloved hand over the hull.
"For you? Fifty thousand credits."
It was steep. It was most of my savings. But to fly the Millennium Falcon? Worth it.
"Open it," I ordered.
The ramp hissed down. I walked inside.
The nostalgia evaporated instantly.
The interior was a disaster. The corridors smelled of mold. I popped the maintenance panel on the hyperdrive motivator.
I didn't need to be a genius mechanic to see the problem.
It wasn't a ship. It was a coffin.
"She needs a little love," the salesman said, sweating. "But the chassis is solid! A coat of paint and she'll fly like a dream!"
"It's a scam," I said, turning to him. "The power converter is fried. The nav-computer is from a mining drone. If I try to jump to lightspeed in this, I'll disintegrate."
The salesman's demeanor changed. His antennae flattened. "Look, pal. It's a seller's market. You want it or not? I have a buyer coming in an hour who pays full price."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah. So pay up or get off my lot."
I sighed. I really wanted the cool ship. But physics was a cruel mistress.
"I need a ship that works," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "And I don't like being hustled."
"And I don't like loiterers!" the salesman snapped, reaching for a stun-baton on his belt. "Beat it before I call security!"
I didn't move.
I simply reached back and uncoiled my tail from around my waist.
I let it drop out from under my cloak, flicking it casually in the air like a whip.
The salesman froze.
His compound eyes widened. He looked at the brown, furry appendage. Then he looked at my hood.
On this side of the galaxy, that tail meant only one thing.
"S-Saiyan?" he squeaked.
"We have a reputation for destroying things that disappoint us," I said calmly. "Don't we?"
The stun-baton clattered to the floor. The salesman began to shake.
"I... I apologize! I didn't know! I thought you were a refugee!"
"I need a ship," I repeated. "A real one. Fast. Long range. And if you show me another piece of junk, I'm going to turn this entire lot into a crater."
"Right away, my Lord! Right away!"
He scrambled over to a heavy, reinforced hangar in the back. He punched in a code with trembling fingers.
The doors opened.
It wasn't pretty. It wasn't the Falcon.
It was a blocky, angular courier ship. It looked like a flying brick painted matte grey. It had oversized engines bolted to the back and a cockpit that looked like a blister on the nose.
"The Starlin-Class Courier," the salesman stammered. "Military surplus. Dual-layer shielding. Class-1 Hyperdrive. Self-sustaining life support for six months. It's ugly, but... it's the fastest thing I have."
I walked up to it. I kicked the landing strut. Solid durasteel. I checked the engines. Clean, well-maintained, high-output ion drives.
It was a tank with a Ferrari engine.
"How much?"
"Take it!" the salesman cried. "Just take it! Please don't kill me!"
"I'm not a thief," I said.
I threw a credit chit at him. It was twenty thousand. Less than half of what he asked for the junker.
"Keep the change."
I walked up the ramp. The airlock sealed behind me with a reassuring thud.
I sat in the pilot's seat. The console was functional, utilitarian. No frills.
I punched in the coordinates.
North Galaxy. Sector 4032-Green. Earth.
The nav-computer whirred, calculating the jump.
ESTIMATED TRAVEL TIME: 4 MONTHS.
I stared at the screen.
"Four months?" I groaned.
It was a long haul.
I engaged the thrusters. The ship lifted smoothly, the G-force barely noticeable compared to the pod.
I blasted out of the atmosphere, watching Planet Hurul shrink behind me.
Four months in deep space.
I looked back at the main hold. It was spacious. Enough room to walk, to jump, to move.
"Four months of isolation," I whispered.
I stood up and walked to the cargo bay. I stripped off my cloak.
My power was halved. I was sitting at 11,000. It felt weak. It felt vulnerable.
But I could get back to this power. The clone on the other hand would have a harder time climbing back to 20K, he wouldn't have enough time, where I am completely free. It feels strange after all these years.
--
POV: The Clone
The landing on Planet Vegeta was smooth.
The hatch of the Attack Ball hissed open, and the sulfur-choked air of home flooded the cockpit.
I stepped out.
I felt... strange.
I flexed my hand. It looked like my hand. I touched my face. It felt like my face.
My power level sat at 9,000.
I was the sacrificial pawn left on the board to be captured so the King could escape.
I walked down the ramp.
The suns were setting. The hangar was empty, save for a single figure standing near the exit.
Ruca.
She was leaning against a support beam, her arms crossed. She looked tired. She hadn't changed out of her armor since I left two days ago.
When she saw me, she straightened up. She scanned me with her eyes, looking for injuries.
Ruca didn't run to meet me. She didn't shout. She pushed herself off the support beam and walked toward me, her steps measured, deliberate. The casual boredom that usually defined her was gone, replaced by a raw, exposed intensity.
I stopped at the bottom of the ramp. I kept my face blank, the mask of the "Cold Elite" locked in place. I had to maintain the narrative. I had to be the asshole who used her.
"You came back," she said, stopping five feet away. Her voice was flat, devoid of the playful sarcasm I was used to.
"I told you I would," I replied, my voice echoing slightly in the empty hangar. "Two days. Training complete."
She looked me in the eye. She was searching for something. A crack in the façade. A hint of apology.
"I thought about what you said," Ruca started, her gaze drifting to the Garl crest on my chest armor. "About how I used you. About the armor test."
She took a breath, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
"You were right. I'm sorry."
I blinked, genuinely surprised. The mask slipped for a fraction of a second. "What?"
"I was a brat," Ruca admitted, looking up at me. Her eyes were hard, but not angry. "I was an Elite playing with a new toy. I didn't respect you. I didn't care if you broke because I figured I could just get another sparring partner."
She stepped closer.
"But that was six years ago, Cress. That was before."
She poked a finger hard into my chest plate.
"You say you used me as a shield? Fine. Maybe you did. But you also saved my life. Twice. A tool doesn't save its user, Cress. A partner does."
I stared at her. I didn't want to have this conversation. it was already too late.
"You're sentimental," I scoffed, trying to regain ground. "It makes you weak."
"No," Ruca countered, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "It makes me loyal. And if you think you can push me away, you're delusional."
She grabbed the front of my armor and yanked me forward, bringing her face inches from mine. "I don't care if you hate me. I don't care if you used me."
She let go, shoving me back slightly.
She turned on her heel and started walking toward the exit.
"Father wants a report on your 'training' in the morning," she called back over her shoulder. "Don't be late."