Give me stones pleaseeeeeeee l need this my mama kinda homeless l Wana help her out
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Frieza returned to the bridge and eased himself onto his floating throne, the surface adjusting instantly beneath him. It was soft—almost absurdly so—like sitting on a warm current of air. He allowed himself a small moment of stillness, tail resting loosely at his side.
Comfort was not weakness, he decided. It was efficiency.
His gaze drifted, idle but sharp, and his thoughts returned to the searches he had ordered.
He had not expected results so soon. Planets were not coins to be found under cushions, and the names he had given were half-buried in rumor and broken records.
Time was usually the price of uncertainty.
A knock broke the quiet.
Frieza's eyes opened fully.
"Enter."
The doors slid apart and Cym stepped inside. His posture was crisp,No fear. No hesitation. Just discipline. Frieza noticed these things. He always did.
"My lord," Cym said, saluting. "We have located Planet Vampa."
Frieza blinked once.
For a fraction of a second, the room felt colder.
Then Frieza smiled.
Not wide.
Not loud.
But malicious.
The kind of smile that meant someone, somewhere, had just lost their future.
"Vampa," he repeated, tasting the word.
He had not expected this. Not now. Vampa was remote, barely worth noting in most star charts.
A dead-end world surrounded by bad routes and worse data. Most empires would not bother Keeping location for it at all.
But the Saiyans had.
Primitive records. Crude maps. Incomplete coordinates—but they had kept them. That alone had shortened the search by years.
Interesting.
Frieza leaned back slightly, fingers tapping the armrest in a slow rhythm. His mind moved quickly now, already adjusting plans, already discarding others.
Without his current strength, Vampa would have remained irrelevant. A hostile planet with nothing to offer but danger.
Even King Cold had avoided unnecessary risks like that.
But things were different now.
Frieza felt it in his core. The Golden power answered him without resistance, without strain. Calm. Dense. Obedient.
He no longer needed to consider whether he could handle what waited on that world.
The being called Broly was not a mystery to him.
He's just a FUCKING MONKEY with abnormal growth. Extreme potential.
A mind shaped by isolation rather than strategy.
Strength without structure. Power without purpose.
Such creatures were not kings.
They were weapons.
Weapons only became problems when handled poorly.
Broly—legendary, feral, unstoppable Broly—was no longer an unknown variable.
He was an opportunity.
A child trapped in a monster's body.
Frieza's smile deepened, sharpened by calculation.
Handled correctly, Broly could become something extraordinary.
Not through fear alone—that was crude—but through guidance, structure, and a careful shaping of loyalty.
The boy's mind was simple. Honest. Easily anchored. With the right hand, he could be made fiercely devoted.
And Frieza would ensure that hand was his.
Frieza's lips curved again, just slightly.
"If managed correctly," he said, more to himself than to Cym, "he will be loyal. Not out of fear. Out of dependence."
A child's mind, trapped in a monster's body. Direction alone would be enough.
Frieza stood, the throne drifting back as he rose. "This matter will not be delegated. I will handle this myself, Prepare my ship."
Cym bowed at once. "Yes, my lord."
Frieza turned toward the stars, eyes narrowing as he fixed on a point no one else could see. Vampa was no longer a question mark.
It was a resource.
And resources, once claimed, were never wasted.
"This universe keeps surprising me," Frieza said quietly. "I suppose I should return the favor."
The smile that followed was calm, certain, and dangerous.
Vampa would not resist for long.
---
The ship emerged from hyperspace without ceremony.
No alarms. No fanfare. Just the quiet hum of engines settling as the void peeled away to reveal Planet Vampa hanging before them.
Frieza stood at the forward viewport, hands clasped behind his back. He did not need data readouts to understand what he was looking at.
The planet was wrong in a way only failed worlds were—scarred landmasses, violent storms crawling across the surface, an atmosphere thick with dust and static.
No cities. No lights. No signs of civilization.
A place that killed slowly, or drove things mad.
"So this is where they threw him away," Frieza said softly.
Cym stood a step behind him, eyes fixed on the planet. "Scans confirm minimal life signatures, my lord. One reading stands out. Enormous energy output, fluctuating, but… unfocused."
Frieza's tail swayed once. "Broly."
The name felt heavy, like a blunt object rather than a title. Raw strength given form, left to rot.
King Vegeta's fear had been clumsy, short-sighted—but effective. Exile was cheaper than execution, and far crueller.
Frieza approved of the logic, if not the waste.
The ship descended through the atmosphere. Turbulence rattled the hull as the skies darkened, lightning ripping through thick clouds.
The ground below was a stretch of jagged rock and blackened earth, split by deep ravines and scorched craters. Whatever lived here survived through stubbornness alone.
The ship touched down with a dull impact.
Frieza stepped onto the surface first.
The wind was harsh, carrying dust and ash that scraped against his skin. Gravity tugged unevenly, the planet's core unstable, as if Vampa itself struggled to remain whole. He felt the pressure immediately—not enough to challenge him, but enough to remind him that this was not a place meant to be endured.
Somewhere far off, the air trembled.
A pulse.
Cym stiffened. "That energy signature just spiked."
Frieza smiled. "Good. He's noticed us."
He began walking forward, boots crunching against fractured stone. With each step, the ground reacted—subtle tremors rippling outward, the planet responding to a presence it could not understand.
Another pulse came, closer this time. Stronger. Wild.
Frieza could sense it clearly now. Not refined. Not measured.
Just power layered on power, coiled tight and angry, like an animal that had never learned restraint.
No strategy. No awareness.
Just survival and rage.
"Such strength," Frieza murmured. "And no one to teach you how to use it."
A shape appeared through the storm ahead.
Massive. Broad-shouldered. Barefoot against the broken earth, scars crossing his body like old memories carved into flesh. His eyes burned with confusion more than hatred, scanning the horizon as he tried to place the intrusion.
Broly.
The air between them vibrated as his power flared instinctively, a warning rather than an attack.
Cym felt it and froze, every instinct screaming danger.
Frieza did not slow.
He stopped several meters away, standing calmly amid the storm, golden aura dormant but present beneath his skin like a loaded weapon.
Broly growled, low and uncertain, fists clenching. He did not charge. Not yet.
Frieza tilted his head, studying him the way one might study a rare beast.
"So this is what fear looks like when it never learns language," Frieza said quietly.
He raised his voice just enough to carry over the wind.
"You've been alone for a very long time," he said. "Haven't you?"
Broly did not answer. He couldn't. But something in his expression shifted—not understanding, but recognition. A presence that did not immediately seek to kill him.
Frieza smiled again, this time with purpose.
"Good," he said. "Then you're exactly what I was hoping for."
The storm raged on around them, the planet groaning under the weight of two forces it was never meant to host.
And for the first time in his life, Broly stood before someone who was not afraid of him.