I burst out of the healing center, my heart racing, the sound of my boots echoing in the metal corridors as the frigid air stings my skin. Panic propels me forward, my mind fixated on a single thought: I'm late. I'm an hour late for my meeting with Kren, and if I don't arrive soon, the entire plan I've been working on for a year could collapse like a sandcastle. I sprint towards my house, the wind whipping my face with a sharp whistle, Vegeta's purple sky tinging a pale orange as the sun begins to peek out, and the gray clouds swirl in circles, as if foreshadowing trouble. As I cut through the city, I adjust my scouter with a quick flick of my wrist, the device emitting a soft beep as it powers on, and I contact Kren, my breath ragged as I await his response.
"Varek, for crying out loud!" Kren's voice crackles through the scouter, filled with fury and anxiety, his tone as sharp as a dagger. "Where are you, you little idiot? I've been waiting for you for an hour! I thought they got you, that the Organization discovered our plan and arrested you... or worse. What happened?"
I cough; the pain from my wounds still burns through my body, and I try to keep my voice steady, even though my anxiety seeps into every word. "I had… a couple of unexpected issues," I say cautiously, as memories of my fight with Bardock flood my mind: the blue flash of the Kamehameha clashing against his Spirit Cannon, the impact that sent me flying, the searing pain I felt as I collapsed onto the ground. "But I'm fine, Kren. I'm on my way now, so calm down. The plan is still on, got it?"
Kren lets out a low growl, his frustration evident, and I hear the dull thud of his tail against the ground through the scouter. "You better be, runt! Don't keep me waiting even a second longer, or I swear I'll hand you over to the Organization myself to be gutted. Hurry up!" The communication cuts off with a dry snap, and I increase my speed, the wind hitting me harder as I fly toward home, the landscape of Vegeta sliding beneath my feet like a blurry smear of colors.
I land in my home's courtyard with an impact that kicks up a cloud of dust, the gentle murmur of the nearby stream breaking the morning silence. I enter my house, my armor creaking with each step, and head to my room to pack a backpack with the essentials. I grab a couple of pieces of jerky, a hunting knife with a handle worn smooth from use, and a peculiar object I discovered a while ago in the arid zone during my ki training. It's a metallic device with a "B" carved into the surface, its silver sheen reflecting the light in an unusual way, and although I have no idea what it is or who created it, I kept it out of pure curiosity. I decide to take it with me, thinking that perhaps at my destination I can find someone who can decipher it, and I carefully place it in the backpack. I close the bag with a firm tug, the leather emitting a rough sound as I adjust it over my shoulder.
I leave the house and pause for a moment in the courtyard, the fresh morning air filling my lungs with the scent of wildflowers. I look at the white structure, its walls marked by time, the warped roof that has sheltered me since I reincarnated into this world. I won't see it for a long time, and that certainty weighs on my chest more than I expected. However, there's no time for sentimentality. I fly towards the mission hub, the wind enveloping me with its roar, and my mind focuses on what is to come.
The mission center is a massive building, featuring polished metal walls and a convex roof that reflects the rising sun. The air is thick with the scent of burnt fuel and stale sweat, while the shouts and laughter of Saiyans fill the atmosphere with vibrant chaos. This place serves as the heart of Saiyan operations, where missions are assigned that keep our people tied to Frieza's Organization. The process for accepting a mission is clear and strict: first, the center assigns you a task based on your rank and abilities, a procedure that can be as simple as a stamp on a document or as complex as a combat assessment. Then, a notification arrives on your scouter, indicating the time and place where you must report. Upon arrival, you will receive a holographic tablet containing all the mission details: information about the target planet, the expected level of resistance, and the specific objectives you must fulfill. After that, you will be assigned a spaceship suitable for the mission, which may be an individual pod for solo trips or a larger ship for squad conquests. Finally, you head to the departure port, a place bustling with activity where ships take off for their destinations, surrounded by the roar of engines and shouted orders.
I enter the center, and the noise washes over me like a wave as I search for Kren among the throng of Saiyans and aliens moving back and forth. I find him in a secluded corner; his imposing figure stands out against the light streaming through a dusty window, his scouter flickering as he reviews a tablet with a tense expression. I approach, my breathing still ragged from the flight, and he shoots me a scathing look, his tail striking the ground with an impatient rhythm that resonates like a drum.
"You finally arrive," he grunts, his voice low yet heavy with tension, and he gestures quickly toward a nearby door. "Let's go somewhere private. I don't want anyone overhearing what we're about to discuss." I follow him into a small room at the back of the center; the metal walls are coated in dust and wear marks, and the air reeks of rancid oil and hot metal. He slams the door shut, causing the frame to tremble, and crosses his arms, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes me uneasy.
"Let's review the plan one last time," he says, his voice a firm whisper, each word carefully articulated. "I'll give you the holographic tablet containing the fake mission to Zyrathar. You'll depart in a standard capsule, as if it were any other mission. A few hours later, my contact will hack your ship's tracking system to make it appear as though a small asteroid struck it and damaged the system. I'll report to headquarters that there was a malfunction, that we lost your signal, but that you're likely still alive and completing the mission. No one will suspect a thing." He pauses, his scouter flickering as he watches me intently. "Once you're free of tracking, you'll alter your route to your destination. Did you understand everything?"
I sit, my heart pounding, the weight of what they're about to do to me pressing down like a rock. "Understood," I reply, my voice sounding more confident than I feel. "Let's get this over with."
Kren hands me the holographic tablet, a rectangular device that emits a blue glow, projecting the false mission data into the air before me as a hologram. "Zyrathar," he says, pointing at the screen with a finger. "That's what everyone will see. Now go. I want no more delays." I leave the room, the tablet heavy in my hand, and head for the departure port, the noise of the hub fading behind me as I walk with determination.
The launch port is a hive of activity, a vast space where spherical ships are aligned in neat rows, their metallic surfaces reflecting the sunlight, and the deep hum of engines fills the air with a constant vibration. Aliens of various species scurry back and forth, adjusting panels, loading fuel, and shouting orders, their voices overlapping in a deafening chaos. A line of Saiyans waits their turn, their tails twitching with impatience, but my status as a high-class warrior allows me to move to the front, ignoring the resentful glares they cast my way. A small alien with purple skin and four arms approaches, his expression nervous as he holds a datapad in one of his hands.
"Warrior Varek," he says, his voice trembling, inclining his head slightly while avoiding my gaze. "I'll assign you a standard pod. This is your first time using one of these ships, right?" I nod, and he continues, pointing to a nearby pod while his other hands adjust the datapad. "It's simple. The control panel is inside: just enter the coordinates for your destination, and the ship will take care of the rest. There's a sleep mode for long journeys; activate it, and you can sleep during the trip. If any problems arise, press the red emergency button, and the ship will send a distress signal. Understood?"
"Understood," I reply, my voice steady, even though my mind races with everything at stake. The alien nods, stepping back as I approach the pod, a metallic sphere with a circular window on the front, its surface marred by scratches and small burns. I open the hatch, a hiss escaping from the interior, and cold air hits me as I climb inside. I settle into the seat, which adjusts to my body with a creak, and place my backpack to the side. I enter the false coordinates for Zyrathar; the panel beeps as it accepts them, and the hatch closes with a snap. I press the launch button, and the ship vibrates with a deep rumble, the ground shaking as I take off, the exit port shrinking to a tiny dot beneath my feet.
Outer space envelops me, an infinite void speckled with stars that shine like diamonds, the glow of distant galaxies illuminating the darkness with a faint glimmer. I lean back in the seat; the ship's steady hum fills the silence, and I look out the window as Planet Vegeta shrinks into a purple dot that fades into the distance. A wave of nostalgia washes over me, my chest tightening at the thought of everything I'm leaving behind: the fights on the training ground, the hunts with my friends, the nights in the tavern listening to war stories. This planet, with its brutality and chaos, has been my home since I was reincarnated, and now I'm abandoning it. But this isn't a final goodbye; it's a new beginning. I will return, stronger, and lead my people to freedom. With that thought, I close my eyes, letting the ship's hum lull me as I prepare for the long journey.
---
A few hours later, in a dimly lit room on the outskirts of the metropolis, Kren stands beside his contact, a scholarly alien with grayish skin and large glasses. His hands tremble as he types furiously on a computer, the screen's glow illuminating his sweat-drenched face. The air is thick with tension, the hum of machinery fills the space with a constant drone, and the scent of hot metal permeates the room. Kren paces back and forth, his tail thumping against the floor with an anxious rhythm, his scouter blinking as he observes the alien work.
"Are you almost done, Zylok?" Kren growls, his voice low but laced with nervousness, his eyes fixed on the screen, where lines of code scroll by at breakneck speed. "If you don't hurry, someone will notice Varek's signal is still active. We can't afford any mistakes."
Zylok swallows hard, adjusting his glasses with a trembling hand while the other three type incessantly, sweat beading on his forehead. "I'm... I'm almost ready," he says, his voice high-pitched and shaky, his eyes darting rapidly between the screen and Kren. "It's a complicated system, but I'm almost... there!" He presses a key with a swift motion, and the screen flickers, displaying a message: Ship #4721 Tracking System Compromised. Asteroid Impact Simulation Complete.
Kren lets out a sigh of relief, his tail pausing momentarily. His expression hardens as he picks up his scouter and contacts headquarters. "Kren here, from mission control," he states, his voice firm, though a slight tremor seeps into his tone. "Emergency report: there was a malfunction with the Saiyan Varek's ship. An asteroid impacted the tracking system, and we lost his signal. He's likely still alive and will complete his mission on Zyrathar, but we can't confirm it." Headquarters responds with a brief message, acknowledges the report, and Kren cuts the communication, his face relaxing slightly.
Then, using a secret code that Zylok previously hacked, Kren sends a message to my scouter. It's a private channel, impossible to trace, especially since, according to my research, at this point in history, Frieza hasn't yet installed voice trackers in the scouters, a detail that plays to our advantage. The message is concise: "All set. Change your route. Good luck, kid."
I receive the message while I'm in the pod; the scouter flashes with a green glow. I smile, an immense relief washing over me, and I change the coordinates to Earth. The panel beeps as it accepts the new course. I'm free. For the first time since I was reincarnated, I'm out of reach of the Organization, and that certainty fills me with a joy I can't contain. I lean back in the seat, the hum of the ship calming my mind, and I gaze at the stars, knowing that I'm one step closer to my goal.
But it seems the universe has other plans. A few hours after departing from Planet Vegeta, while traversing a remote sector of space, my radar detects something unusual. Five unidentified ships appear on the screen, their angular shapes and flashing lights not resembling the Organization's pods. Before I can react, a laser beam slices through space, passing mere meters from my pod and illuminating the interior with a red flash. The control panel blares a sharp alarm, and my heart races as I swiftly adjust the controls.
"What the hell...?" I mutter, dodging another laser that rattles the ship with its shockwave. A message comes through the communicator, and a distorted voice echoes in the cockpit:
"Unknown warrior, surrender now or we'll reduce you to ashes! Hand over your ship and your belongings, or nothing will remain of you!"
I hear laughter in the background, and my scouter flashes as it detects their power levels: between 3000 and 4000. Not a big deal for a Saiyan like me, but there are too many to risk fighting in space and damaging the pod. I scanned the radar and located a nearby trading planet. I decided to land there to confront them on solid ground.
Descending at full speed, lasers whiz past me, one grazing the hull and leaving a scorched mark. I land on a dusty platform in the trading port, kicking up a cloud of sand, and exit the pod with my armor creaking. The mercenaries' ships touch down shortly after, and a group of scaly aliens, with green and red skin and yellow eyes, emerge, weapons in hand.
"Hey, you!" one shouts, brandishing a laser cannon that's too large for his skinny frame. "Surrender now and give us everything, or we'll blast you to pieces!"
I don't respond right away. My scouter analyzes them, and a smile spreads across my face. These fools have no idea who I am or where I come from. They don't recognize my armor or the Organization's symbol; they're likely just bandits from another galaxy, oblivious to Frieza's dominion. "You want to fight?" I say, my voice calm yet mocking, as my tail sways slowly. "Go ahead. But don't say I didn't warn you."
The "fight" is a disaster for them. They charge at me, screaming and firing lasers that I effortlessly dodge. A red alien with horns attempts to punch me, but I knock him down with a light blow that leaves him groaning on the ground. Another alien fires a cannon that jams, and I send him crashing into his ship with a ki blast. In less than a minute, they're all sprawled out—some unconscious, others writhing in pain—while the crowd at the port stares at me with a mix of fear and awe.
I decided to explore the trading planet before continuing my journey. I venture into the streets and soon arrive at a bustling marketplace: a dusty avenue lined with stalls under faded awnings, where merchants shout, offering exotic fruits and dubious technology. The air is filled with the scents of spices, hot metal, and sweat. As I walk, I notice the aliens looking at me with apprehension. Their eyes fixate on my armor, bearing the Organization's symbol engraved on my chest, and on my tail, which swishes behind me. Some recoil, others whisper, and a couple of children hide behind their parents. I suppose they recognize the emblem of Frieza, and even if they don't know I'm a Saiyan, the fear of the Organization is universal.
I don't care. I'm used to those stares, and I don't have time to worry about them. However, before I buy anything, I realize there's a problem: money. On Planet Vegeta and all planets controlled by the Frieza Force, we use Galactic Credits, a currency imposed by the Force for trade within its territories, though on Planet Vegeta we usually just call them coins. As a high-class Saiyan from a wealthy family, I possess a fortune roughly equivalent to about $2 million from my past life on Earth, stored on a special card issued by the Force to privileged Saiyans. It's a black device adorned with Frieza's symbol in gold, allowing me to access my funds on any planet under their control. But this planet is independent, and they don't accept Galactic Credits here. Instead, they use Draks, silver coins with a circular design that glow faintly.
I ask a small alien with antennae, who trembles at the sight of me, where I can exchange my money. "O-over there," he stutters, pointing to a building with a sign that reads "Intergalactic Exchange House." I step inside and approach the counter, attended by a yellow alien with six arms who watches me cautiously.
"I need to exchange Galactic Credits for Draks," I say, placing my card on the counter.
She picks it up, inserts it into a reader, and her datapad beeps. Her eyes widen when she sees my balance, but she quickly regains her composure. "The exchange rate is 1 credit for 3 Draks. How much would you like to exchange?"
"500 credits," I reply. That will give me 1500 Draks, enough for supplies and then some.
She processes the transaction and hands me a sack of silver coins. "Here you go," she says, returning my card. "Have a nice day... sir." I notice the tremor in her voice, but I ignore it and leave.
With the Draks in hand, I return to the market and stop at a provisions stall. The vendor, a scaly alien with three eyes, trembles as he attends to me. "W-what do you need, sir?" he murmurs, avoiding eye contact.
"Food for the journey," I say, pointing to some dried fruit energy bars. "And that," I add, gesturing to a small portable charger that could work for my scouter.
"That'll be 50 Draks," he says, putting everything in a bag with unsteady hands. I pay him with a handful of coins and continue on my way, ignoring the stares of the crowd.
Later, I stop at a small stall, a cart with a faded red awning, and order a plate of grilled meat. The vendor, an alien with tentacles that move nervously, serves me with shaky hands, his eyes averted. "You're...you're a Saiyan, right?" he says, his voice quivering, and carefully sets the plate in front of me. "From Frieza's army... Please, don't destroy my stall."
"I'm not going to destroy anything," I say, tearing off a piece of meat with my teeth; the spicy flavor burns my tongue, and the juice runs down my chin. "I just want to eat." Yet, I notice everyone around me looking at me with fear, whispering to one another, their eyes filled with terror at the sight of my armor and tail. Being a Saiyan, especially one from Frieza's army, carries a reputation, and while it makes me a bit uncomfortable, I don't care enough to stop enjoying my meal.
As I eat, several aliens approach, their bodies adorned with shimmering makeup, their tight clothes barely covering their skin, revealing curves that would make any warrior stop and stare. "Hello, warrior," one of them says, her voice a seductive whisper, her blue skin glowing in the sunlight, her eyes watching me with a mix of fear and desire, her full lips curving into a smile that promises forbidden pleasures. "Want a little fun? We can make your trip... unforgettable." Another, with green hair cascading over her shoulders and small horns adorning her forehead, approaches, her hand brushing my arm with a caress that sends shivers down my spine. "Such a strong Saiyan must need to relax, no?" she murmurs, her voice a purr that makes me swallow hard.
I remain motionless, my mind clouding as I look at them, my body reacting in ways I didn't expect. They present themselves like prostitutes, and despite the fact that I'm only 11 years old, they don't seem to care. I guess being in Frieza's army makes me an attractive target, regardless of my age. A third one approaches, and my breath catches as I see her: her appearance reminds me of Android 21 in her Majin form, her pink skin glowing with a pearly hue, her red eyes exuding an intensity that hypnotizes me, and her jet-black hair cascading in perfect waves over her shoulders. Her body is a masterpiece, with curves that defy gravity, her breasts pressed against tight fabric that leaves little to the imagination, and her hips moving with feline grace as she leans towards me, her sweet and intoxicating perfume enveloping me like a cloud. "Come on, little warrior," she whispers, her voice a siren's song, her lips so close that I feel her warm breath on my skin. "I can show you things you'll never forget, pleasures that will make you tremble with ecstasy."
For a moment, I'm tempted, my body burning with a heat I can't control, my mind lost in fantasies I shouldn't be having. But then, a thought hits me like a lightning bolt, and the heat transforms into an icy chill: I'm a kid. My body isn't... developed. The idea of what could happen if I accepted fills me with a shame that burns my face, and I jump to my feet, my chair clattering to the floor, my face as red as a tomato as I stammer an excuse. "N-no, thank you! I have... I have to go!" I say, my voice cracking, and I bolt towards my pod at full speed, the aliens' laughter echoing behind me, their guffaws chasing me as I flee.
I climb aboard the ship, my heart racing, and take off right away, the trade planet dwindling to a dot in the distance as I head back into space. I lean back in the seat, the hum of the ship soothing my mind, and gaze at the stars, a smile spreading across my face. I'm en route to my destination, and nothing will stop me now. This is just the start of my journey, and I'm prepared to face it...