A cold breeze blows through my backyard, kicking up dust and stirring the leaves on the bushes by the creek. The sky is gray, rays of light piercing the clouds like spears, illuminating the wet grass with a silvery glow that seems almost metallic. It smells of wet earth and wildflowers, a scent that mingles with the faint smell of burnt steel that always hangs in the air of this planet. A whole year has passed since I visited the metropolis and started planning my trip to Earth. I need to increase my power, to break the limits that bind me, to face what is to come.
I get up from the floor where I was sitting, adjusting my armor with a creak. The chest plate is slightly dented from a blow it received days ago, and I run my fingers over the mark, feeling the cold metal under my skin. In a corner of the courtyard, a small campfire still burns, the embers crackling softly. Last night I roasted a piece of meat from a beast I hunted, and there's still a piece left on a stone by the fire. I pick it up, tearing off a bite with my teeth. The meat is raw in the center, the strong, sour taste filling my mouth, but to my Saiyajin stomach, this is a normal breakfast. I swallow hard, wiping the blood from my lips with the back of my hand, and pull on my boots, the worn leather creaking as I adjust them.
My base power is at 9000, a jump from last year's 7250, but not enough. Yesterday, at the training camp, I faced a high-class Saiyan kid with 4000 power. I should have crushed him, but his speed took me by surprise. I dodged a ki blast narrowly, the heat brushing my cheek, and when I counterattacked, my blow was slow, as if my muscles didn't respond as they should. He knocked me down with a punch to the chest, and I fell to the dust, the impact knocking the air from my lungs, the bitter taste of blood rising in my mouth. Zorn, my instructor, approached, his towering figure cut against the gray sky, his raspy voice cutting through the air.
"You don't push yourself hard enough, Varek," he said, crossing his arms, his tail wagging slowly behind him. "Your power is 8000. If you don't fight seriously, you won't grow. What's wrong with you today? You seem distracted."
I nodded, though I don't tell him my real power is 9000. I purposely lower it so as not to stand out too much. Among Saiyajin, stagnation is common-many don't go above 5000, and others reach 10,000 after years of battles. But I know there's more. On Earth I can learn techniques that will make me stronger, that will allow me to face the monsters that exist beyond this planet, like Beerus, Majin Boo, or Freezer himself. "I'm fine," I muttered, getting up and dusting off my armor. "I just need to concentrate."
Zorn grunted, his scouter blinking as he assessed me. "Then focus, little one. I don't have time to train someone who doesn't take this seriously." He walked away, his tail thumping the ground once, a gesture of impatience that made me clench my fists.
The morning at boot camp passes quickly. I face other upperclassmen, dodging punches that buzz by my ear and throwing ki blasts that cut through the air with a high-pitched whistle. I take a blow to the cheek, the sharp pain spreading across my face, but I ignore it and knock my opponent down with an impact that slams him to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust that makes me cough. Sweat drips down my forehead, mixing with the dust that sticks to my skin. Zorn taps me on the shoulder at the end, his hand heavy as a rock. "Perfect, keep it up, and someday you'll be just like your father Vareck."
I laugh inwardly at what Zorn said, I feel no pride at all in being compared to my father, as other children would. I know what lies beyond: gods, warriors who could destroy planets with a snap. What I look forward to is something else: to become the king of the Saiyans, to lead my people into a future where we are free, strong, a people that no one can break. That idea burns inside me, and it's not new. In my past life, I also wanted to lead, to change the destiny of a people. I remember a time, years ago, in my home country, Germany-I tried to lead a coup against a corrupt government, a crazy plan I organized with a group of radicals. We failed miserably-the police crushed us within days. But my audacity caught the attention of the CIA. They recruited me for covert operations in the Middle East, where they spent years moving in the shadows, taking down enemies from within. I always wanted to lead, to build something great, and now, as a Saiyan, I have the opportunity to do so. I will not go to Earth to live quietly; I want to return and be the king the Saiyajin need.
A group of high-class Saiyans approaches as I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. One of them, an adult warrior with long hair and a scar on his chest, speaks to me, his voice gravelly and full of enthusiasm. "Varek, we're going to hunt a Kragthar in the barren lands, are you joining? Don't tell me you're going to stay here practicing on children, after all you're still a brat."
Another Saiyan, younger, with shaggy hair and new armor that shines too brightly, laughs, tapping the first one's shoulder. "Give it up, Korr. he's probably afraid to get that nice armor dirty."
I look at them, my tail wagging once behind me, a gesture of defiance. "I'm not afraid to get dirty," I say, my voice calm but firm. "Come on. But if the Kragthar tear your arm off, don't blame me, Korr."
Korr lets out a laugh, thumping his chest. "That's the spirit, little one! Let's see if you can keep up with us." The young Saiyan, still laughing, adds, "If you kill him, I'll give you my share of the meat. But I don't think you will." I smile, adjusting my armor, and follow them.
We fly towards the arid lands, a terrain full of rocks and dust where the wind whistles like a lament, raising small clouds of sand that stick to my skin. The sun, though hidden behind the clouds, warms the air, and I feel the heat on my face, sweat running down my back under my armor. The ground is cracked, and the air smells of dry sand already somewhat acrid, as if the heat has burned away what little metal there is in the rocks. The Kragthar appears behind a dune, its body covered in black scales glistening in the grayish light, its claws long as blades and its red eyes glowing with fury. It roars, a sound that rumbles on the ground and rattles the loose stones around us, and we charge at it.
We fight like a pack, coordinated but wild. "To the right, Korr!" I shout, as he launches a blast of ki that hits the Kragthar's flank, scorching its scales with a hiss. Korr moves to the other side, his laughter echoing as he throws a ki laden punch. "I've got it, little one! Don't get ahead of me!" he shouts, but the Kragthar lunges at him, its claw slicing through the air inches from his face. Korr narrowly dodges, rolling on the ground, and lets out a curse. "You damned beast, I'm going to rip your head off!"
The younger Saiyajin, more reckless, tries to attack him head-on. "I'll kill him!" he shouts, but the Kragthar charges him, throwing him against a rock with a thud that resounds like thunder. "You idiot, don't expose yourself!" shouts Korr at him, as he flies at the Kragthar and drives a ki cannon straight into its skull. The beast falls with a thud, its body motionless, and dust rises in a dense cloud that makes us cough. The smell of blood and burnt flesh fills the air, a thick aroma that sticks in the throat.
On the way back, I hear shouts from the metropolis. It is the celebration for the birth of Prince Vegeta. Curious, I walk toward the main square, a wide space surrounded by white buildings with sloping roofs, the ground covered with dust and boot marks. The air smells of liquor and sweat, and the sound of clinking mugs and harsh laughter fills the space. Upper-class Saiyans sip liquor from jugs, their voices echoing as they toast. "He's going to be a real warrior," says one, thumping his chest, liquor spilling down his chin and dripping onto his armor. "The king is proud," replies another, spilling more liquor as he laughs, his tail thumping the ground excitedly. "To Prince Vegeta!" shouts a third, raising his mug, and the others roar in response, the sound echoing like thunder.
In one corner, middle-class Saiyans wager in an impromptu brawl: two warriors, one with short hair and one with a scar on his arm, strike each other with punches that resound like hammer blows. The crowd surrounds them, shouting and betting coins, their tails whipping the air with excitement. "Hit him harder, Torm!" shouts one, as Torm, who has a scar over his eye, throws a punch at his opponent's stomach, who doubles over with a grunt. "That's it, finish him off!" replies another, laughing as he tosses more coins into the pile. Lower-class kids brawl with each other beyond, their punches echoing as the crowd ignores them. One knocks another down with a blast of ki and roars, raising his arms, his face covered in dust and blood. I smile, but a part of me pauses to think. In my world, this would be a scandal-children fighting like this, unsupervised, in a public place. Here it's normal, and the strangest thing is that I find it...liberating. There are no rules, only force, and I like that better than I expected.
I approach the group of middle-class Saiyans betting on the fight, dust kicking up under my boots with each step. "Who's winning?" I ask, my voice calm, adjusting my scouter with a quick motion. One of them, a warrior with short hair and a scar on his neck, looks at me, his scouter blinking as he sizes me up. "The one with the scar, Torm," he says, pointing to the warrior who has just thrown a punch at his opponent's stomach. "He's fast, you want to bet, little guy? You don't look like the type to get your hands dirty."
I pull some coins out of my pouch and place them in his hand, the metal clinking softly. "To Torm," I say, my voice steady. "You look like you know what you're doing." He nods, a crooked smile on his face, and we watch as Torm takes down his opponent with a final blow, the sound of the impact echoing across the square. The crowd roars, some shouting in joy and others cursing as they pick up their coins. The Saiyan hands me double the coins, laughing. "Good eye, little one," he says, giving me a tap on the shoulder that sends me reeling. "You sure you don't want to fight yourself? You look strong for your age."
"Not today," I say, putting the coins away with a smile. "Maybe another day." He nods, turning his attention to the next fight, and I walk away, feeling a spark of camaraderie. These small victories make me feel a part of them, and remind me why I want to lead them.
Then, the sky darkens, the gray clouds turning almost black. A fleet of ships appears: several small ones escort a giant, their silhouettes silhouetted against the sky like predators on the prowl. They land in the plaza with a ground-shaking roar, kicking up dust and rattling the liquor jugs in the Saiyajin's hands. The hum of the engines echoes in my chest, and the air fills with a smell of burning metal and fuel. The small ships open first, the hatches hissing as they glide down, and from them the Ginyu Forces descend, posing ridiculously as some low-class Saiyans chuckle amidst murmurs. Ginyu, in his shining armor, leads the pose, shouting in a high-pitched voice, "By the greatness of Lord Freezer, the Ginyu Forces have arrived!" Recoome flexes his muscles, his laughter echoing like thunder, as Jeice adjusts his red hair with a vain gesture, glaring at the Saiyans with disdain. Burter trails behind, his tall, lean figure moving with unnerving speed as he surveys the crowd, and Guldo stumbles over his own cape, cursing under his breath as he tries to get up.
Dodoria, pink and prickly, snarls at a Saiyan who looks at him too hard, his gravelly voice echoing like a roar, "What are you looking at, monkey, do you want me to rip your tail off?" The Saiyan looks away, his tail taut, and Dodoria lets out a throaty laugh, beating his chest with a fist. Zarbon, elegant, adjusts his hair with a vain gesture, ignoring the Saiyan as he mutters something about the dust soiling his armor, his voice soft but laden with arrogance. "This planet is a dump," he says, more to himself than to the others, even there was also Appule, a common soldier with purple skin, stays behind, adjusting his scouter and glancing nervously around, his short tail wagging uneasily.
Then, from the main ship, emerges King Cold and Freezer in his first form, small but with a presence that chills the air. Cold is imposing, his armor gleaming in the light streaming through the clouds, his tail moving slowly like a predator's, each step echoing with a crunch against the dusty ground. Freezer, beside him, looks frail, his small, white body contrasting with the black horns protruding from his head, but his red eyes and icy smile make the air feel heavier, as if the cold is seeping under my armor. King Vegeta greets them, his armor gleaming, his face hardened but respectful, as the Saiyajin bow, some more reluctantly than others. The tension is thick, and the silence is broken only by the crunch of Cold's feet against the ground and the murmur of the Saiyans further back, their tails taut, sweat glistening on their foreheads.
King Cold addresses King Vegeta, his voice cold and resonant, cutting through the air like a blade: "How good to see you again King Vegeta, I have decided to relinquish my position to my son, Freezer. Cold's Army will become Freezer's Army. The Saiyajins will continue to work under the orders of Freezer's army, the only difference you will notice, is that Freezer is much more ruthless than me..."
Freezer smiles, icy, his voice soft but laden with menace. "You flatter me, father. I have high expectations for the Saiyajins. I trust they will be key to my empire."
King Vegeta bows his head, his voice firm but restrained, each word measured. "We will serve with honor, Lord Freezer."
He watches from the crowd, my heart racing, pulse pounding in my ears. In my past life, I saw this on a screen, but to live it in person is something else. Freezer is more terrifying than I imagined, his voice soft but charged with a menace that makes me clench my fists. The Saiyans around me murmur, their tails taut, the air charged with a mixture of fear and defiance. A middle-class warrior with a scar on his arm whispers to his companion, his voice low but filled with distrust, "That little... he doesn't look like a warrior. How strong can he be?" His companion grunts, adjusting his scouter in one swift motion, the device flashing as he tries to gauge Freezer's power. "I don't know, but it gives me a bad feeling. Look at the way he sees us." A group of lower-class Saiyans farther away stand silently, their faces hardened, sweat glistening on their foreheads. One of them spits on the ground, his tail whipping through the air in a swift motion, a gesture of contempt that does not go unnoticed by Dodoria, who glares at him. I feel a silent fury growing in my chest. I will not let Freezer use my people as tools. I need more power, and Earth is my only option.
The ceremony ends, and the crowd slowly disperses, dust rising under the Saiyajin's boots as they walk away, some muttering among themselves, others walking in silence. I walk toward an abandoned training ground on the outskirts, a place where the lower-class Saiyans usually practice when they don't have missions. The terrain is littered with craters, some so deep that water from recent rains has pooled in them, reflecting the purple sky like broken mirrors. The air smells of dust and burnt metal, and the silence is broken only by the sound of the wind whistling through the rocks. I find a broken scout on the ground, its screen cracked and its light off, the plastic covered in dust and scorch marks. I pick it up, feeling the weight of the plastic in my hand, and run my thumb across the screen, leaving a mark in the dust. We Saiyajin depend on this technology, but it is the Organization's technology, not ours. If I want to lead them in the future, we need to be independent, to create our own tools, our own way. I keep the scouter in my bag, the weight of the device a reminder of what I want to change.
Later, I enter a typical Saiyan tavern, the sound of laughter and shouting hitting me like a wave as I open the door. The interior is packed with Saiyans, their armor battle-scarred, their voices booming as they drink. The air smells of liquor and sweat, a thick odor that clings to the throat, and the floor is covered in dust and drink stains, some fresh and others dry, sticky under my boots. I sit at a table in the back, ordering a pitcher of liquor. While I wait, I run my fingers over a dried bloodstain on my armor, a reminder of this morning's hunt, and scrape it with my fingernail, the dust falling to the floor. The dark liquid arrives in a dented metal pitcher, and I drink it in one gulp, the burning sensation searing my throat. For a moment I think about my past life. I never imagined that at 11 years old I'd be drinking alcohol, but here I am doing it without a second thought. It's part of being Saiyan, and although it shocked me at first, now I enjoy it, the warmth of the liquor spreading through my chest
A group near me argues about Frieza, their voices loud and rough, interrupting each other as they drink. "He's different from Cold," one says, a warrior with short hair and a scar on his neck, slamming his tankard on the table, liquor splashing. "Seems like he hates us," another grunts, his tail thumping the floor with a dry thud, his face flushed with drink. "My brother's on a mission with the Ginyu Force," a third says, his voice low, leaning forward, his scouter blinking as he speaks. "Says this Ginyu guy can't stop talking about Frieza like he's a god. Gives me a bad feeling." The first one cuts him off, laughing, his voice booming. "Ginyu? That idiot with his ridiculous poses. I saw him today, looked like a clown. How can anyone take him seriously?" The second Saiyan grunts, slamming his fist on the table. "Don't laugh, Kael. If Frieza's half as bad as they say, we're in trouble." A lone Saiyan, sitting in a corner, adds, his voice low and bitter, "We've always been tools for them. Cold, Frieza, it's all the same." His words hit me, and I clench the tankard in my hand, the cold metal against my skin. I want to change that.
Leaving the tavern, I enter a massive mechanic shop with curiosity, where ships are repaired for the Organization. The place is full of spherical ships, some open with wires hanging out, others covered in dust and burn marks. The air smells of fuel and hot metal, and the sound of tools striking echoes in the space. I find an alien working on a spherical ship. He's small, with bright blue skin and four arms, each holding a different tool: a soldering iron, a screwdriver, a hammer, and a wrench. His eyes, large and yellow, look at me with curiosity as he adjusts a panel with a buzzing sound, sparks flying around him. I approach, intrigued, the dust crunching under my boots. "What are you doing?" I ask, my voice calm, leaning against a nearby rock, the heat from the ship's metal radiating towards me. He blinks, startled, and his voice is high-pitched, almost squeaky, with a slight accent I don't recognize. "I repair ships for the Saiyans," he says, moving all four arms at once, the soldering iron throwing a spark that illuminates his blue face. "I'm a Klythian. They hire us because we're fast. You're a Saiyan, right? Not many come up to talk. Most just shout orders and leave." "Yeah," I say, watching his work, fascinated by the speed of his movements, his hands moving as if each had a life of its own. "I've never seen a Klythian before. What's it like working for the Organization?" He makes a sound that sounds like laughter, but sounds more like a hiss, his yellow eyes gleaming with amusement. "Hard," he says, adjusting a wire with his screwdriver while his hammer taps a loose panel. "The Saiyans are... intense. Always shouting, fighting. One time, one threw a tool at me because I didn't finish on time. But they pay well, and I don't have anywhere else to go." He pauses, looking at me curiously, his head tilting to one side. "You're different. You don't shout. Why?
I smile a little, shrugging. "You don't always have to shout to fight," I say, my voice quiet. "Sometimes it's better to think first." He nods, returning to his work, the hum of his welder filling the silence, and I walk away, the sound of his tools fading behind me. Finally, I head toward the mission center, the sun already down, the sky purple and the cool night air filling my lungs. The building is full of Saiyans, some yelling as they negotiate missions, others reviewing boards with holograms showing planets and rewards, the images floating in the air with a blue glow. The air smells of dampness and sweat, a thick odor that sticks in your throat, and the floor is covered in dust, with boot prints and grease stains. I find Kren at his desk, reviewing tablets, his scouter blinking as he jots something down, his tail moving slowly behind him. I approach carefully, my heart beating fast, and lean on the counter, making sure no one is listening to us, the edge of the counter cold against my hands. "Kren," I say, my voice low, almost a whisper, my eyes locked on his. He looks up, his eyes narrowed, and his tail flicks once, a gesture of curiosity, his scouter blinking as it assesses me. "Varek," he replies, tilting his head, his voice deep and cautious. "What do you want? It's not often I see you around here. Another mission for your father, or what?" He pauses, setting down the tablet he was reviewing, and crosses his arms, his gaze fixed on me. I swallow, feeling a knot in my stomach, sweat trickling down my nape. This is risky, and I know it. "I need a mission," I say, my voice firm but low, my fingers gripping the edge of the counter. "To a distant planet, with two years there, and two years back."
Kren frowns, his scouter flickering as he watches me, his tail thumping the ground once, a gesture of impatience. "That's not unusual," he says, his voice cautious, leaning forward, his breath smelling of liquor. "But there's something else, isn't there? Don't give me that look if it's just a normal mission. What are you up to, kid?" I pause, measuring my words, my heart beating so loudly I'm afraid he'll hear it. "I need it to look like an accident," I finally say, my voice barely audible, my eyes fixed on his, searching for any sign that he might betray me. "Something like an asteroid cutting the tracking. I don't want the Organization to be able to follow me." Kren stands motionless, his scouter flickering as he processes what I've just said, his mouth opening slightly in an expression of disbelief. Then he lets out a low hiss, his tail thumping the ground with a dull thud, a gesture of surprise that echoes across the counter. "An accident?" he repeats, his voice low but laden with incredulity, leaning towards me, his eyes narrowed. "You mean you want me to hack the tracking system? Do you know what you're asking, kid? If the Organization finds out, we're dead. Both of us. Are you crazy?" "I know," I say, my voice cold, even though I feel the sweat on my neck, my hands trembling slightly against the counter. "That's why I'm here. I know you can do it. You're the best at this, Kren. If anyone can make it look real, it's you." Kren looks at me, his eyes narrowed, and for a moment I think he's going to refuse, his tail moving slowly behind him, a gesture of doubt. Then he lets out a dry laugh, slamming his palm on the counter, the sound echoing in the Saiyan-filled space. "You're a crazy son of a bitch, Varek," he says, his voice filled with a mixture of admiration and caution, his scouter flickering as he assesses me. "But I don't work for nothing. This isn't cheap, and it's not just a matter of coins. If I do this, I need guarantees. If something goes wrong, I don't want them coming after me".
I pull out a bag full of coins and leave it on the counter, the sound of the metal ringing softly, the weight of the bag making the counter creak slightly. "This should be enough," I say, my voice firm, even though my heart is still beating fast. "And if something goes wrong, I won't blame you. But I need you to do this." Kren takes the bag, weighing it in his hand, his expression tense as he opens it and checks the coins carefully, his fingers moving quickly, the clinking of the metal filling the silence between us. "It's a good amount," he admits, but his voice is still filled with caution, his tail twitching slowly behind him. "I have a contact who can hack the system. He'll make it look like an accident—an asteroid, like you said. But if anyone finds out, don't look for me. And if the Organization starts asking questions, I'll say I don't know anything. Understood?" "Understood," I say, my heart pounding, a relief mixed with tension running through my body, my shoulders relaxing slightly. "Let no one know." "For this amount, my mouth is shut," he says, with a sly grin that doesn't reach his eyes, stashing the bag under the counter with a quick movement. "The mission will be ready in a few days. Be ready. And don't do anything stupid until then." I leave the center, the cool night air heavy with the smell of metal and dust, the sound of Saiyans shouting and laughing fading behind me. I fly back home, the stars shining in the sky, and sit on the patio, the murmur of the stream in the background, its soft sound calming my mind. My plan is in motion. I will go to Earth, learn what I can, and return with the power to face the shadow of the tyrant who now threatens us...