I was assigned to Pod 712. From the outside, it looked like every other spherical Attack Ball, white hull, red-tinted glass. But as I popped the service hatch and crawled inside, I realized why Overseer Toz had put me on it.
The interior wasn't lined with the standard grey padding. It was outfitted with a dense, matte-black alloy that felt heavier and absorbed more heat. The wiring was hand-braided, and the manual backup controls weren't plastic; they were solid durasteel. This was a high-spec craft, built for someone who expected to survive a direct hit.
I wasn't using a diagnostic computer. I was using a manual torque wrench. The main hatch hinge was stiff, likely from a high-speed reentry that had slightly warped the frame. Most mechanics would have just greased it and called it a day. I was manually shaving the burrs off the metal with a fine-grit file, feeling the resistance in the tool.
"You're a bit small for a lead mechanic."
I didn't jump. I'd felt the Ki signature approaching for thirty seconds. It was steady, sitting around 2000, typical for a high-class teenager. I slowly pulled myself out of the pod's interior, keeping my head low.
Standing there was a girl. She looked to be about fifteen, with the characteristic wild, spiky Saiyan hair tied back into a practical ponytail. She wore a dark bodysuit under a set of polished, light-weight armor plates. Her tail was wrapped tightly around her waist like a belt.
"I'm the technician assigned to this unit, my lady," I said, my voice neutral. I kept my power level clamped down to a 5.
The girl, Ruca, based on the crest on her pauldron, tilted her head. She looked at the manual wrench in my hand, then at the hinge. "Usually they just send the big brutes to hammer the door shut. Why are you filing it?"
"The frame warped by two degrees," I replied, gesturing to the metal. "Grease won't fix a warp. Filing the contact points ensures the vacuum seal holds during FTL travel. If I don't, the pressure will leak, and you'll get a headache ten lightyears out."
Ruca blinked. She clearly didn't know the physics of it, but she understood the word "leak." She stepped closer, peering into the pod. "You're thorough. Most of the trash in the maintenance corps just wants to finish their shift and go drink."
"Precision saves lives," I said, turning back to the work. "And I don't drink."
She let out a short, sharp laugh. "A sober runt who reads manuals. You're a weird one, kid."
She stayed for another twenty minutes, not saying much, just watching me work. It was uncomfortable, like being studied by a predator who wasn't currently hungry. Eventually, she turned and walked away, her boots clicking sharply on the hangar floor.
The second day was a repeat. Ruca returned halfway through my shift. This time, she brought a nutrient skewer, leaning against a tool rack and eating while I calibrated the pod's internal thrusters.
"What's your name?" she asked, her mouth half-full.
"Cress."
"Cress. Like the weed." She smirked. "Appropriate. I'm Ruca. My father is Commander Garl. He's the one who ordered the custom alloy for this pod. He thinks the standard Force gear is too flimsy."
"He's right," I said, tightening a bolt. "Standard gear is designed for mass production. This is designed for endurance."
Ruca talked for the rest of the shift. She didn't ask me about my life; she talked about her own. She complained about the boring patrol routes, the arrogance of her brother's inner circle, and how she wanted a real challenge.
As the suns set on the fifth day, I packed my toolkit. My shift was over.
"Going back to the slums?" Ruca asked, watching me zip up my bag.
"Rest cycle," I replied.
"Don't get killed by a scavenger," she said, waving a hand dismissively as she walked toward the training rooms.
The transition from the Royal Sector back to the Iron District was like a punch to the gut. The air became thick with smog, and the silence of the palace was replaced by the constant, grinding noise of the processing plants.
I pushed open the door to our unit.
The room was cramped and smelled of sour milk and ozone. Karr was already there. He was sprawled in a chair, his massive armor unbuckled, a deep purple bruise coloring his jaw. He looked older, more battered than when he had left, but his energy was still a solid 450.
Sela was standing over Lett's incubation pod, her face a mask of frustration. The baby was screaming, a high-pitched, piercing sound that set my nerves on edge.
"Where were you?" Sela snapped, not even looking at me. "The oxygen regulator on the capsule has been spiking for two days. I tried to reset it, but the manual override wouldn't lock. I've been stuck here with a screaming brat and a failing tank."
"I was at the Royal Hangar," I said, stepping toward the pod. "I was promoted. I sleep on-site for the five-day shift."
Sela paused, her eyes narrowing. "The Royal Hangar? You?"
"I'm good with machines," I said simply. I reached behind the pod, found the jammed solenoid, and gave it a sharp, practiced twist. The screaming of the alarm stopped instantly, replaced by a smooth hum. Lett quieted down almost immediately.
"Promotion, huh?" Karr rumbled, finally acknowledging my presence. He didn't look impressed, but he didn't look angry either. "Does it pay better?"
I looked at Sela, then at Karr. This was the moment.
"Double," I lied.
In reality, the Royal Maintenance Corps paid triple what I made at the Depot. But I wasn't handing that over. I needed to build a fund for a ship, for supplies, for a way out.
"It's more credits," I continued, pulling a small pouch from my bag and tossing it onto the table. It contained the "double" amount. "But the work is harder."
Sela grabbed the pouch, checking the contents. Her expression softened, if only slightly. Credits were the only thing that mitigated the stress of the slums.
Karr didn't care about the money. He stood up, his heavy boots thudding as he walked over to Lett's pod. He looked at the infant with a pride he had never shown me.
"Thirty-eight at birth," Karr grunted, tapping the glass. "He's got fire in him. Not like you, runt. You're all brains and no blood."
I stayed silent.
"I talked to the recruitment officer on my way back," Karr continued. "A birth-power of thirty-eight is high enough to flag. As soon as he's out of the weaning process, Lett is being fast-tracked. He's going to a Mid-Class cadet squad."
I felt a jolt of recognition.
Raditz.
In the show, Raditz had been sent to Prince Vegeta's squad because of his potential. The Saiyan military didn't care about family units; they cared about assets. If Lett showed promise, they would take him, train him, and turn him into a killer before he could even speak.
"He'll be a real warrior," Karr said, a grin stretching his scarred face. "He won't be scrubbing floors."
I looked at my brother. Lett was staring at the bubbles in the tank, unaware that his life had already been mapped out for him.
"Good for him," I said quietly.
--
I spent the next forty-eight hours in the wastelands.
The weight of the palace, the lie about the money, and the fate of my brother all felt like chains. I needed to break something.
I stood in the center of a jagged canyon, my Scouter strapped to my head. I pressed the button.
470.
The number was steady. My body was adapting. I was becoming denser, my muscles more efficient.
"Lower," I commanded myself.
I focused, pulling the energy inward, suffocating the fire in my gut.
300... 150... 50... 5.
I held it. I started my run.
I didn't just run; I practiced Silent Flight. I stayed two inches off the ground, moving at high speeds while keeping my Ki output at a near-zero vibration. On Earth, they called this suppressing your presence. Here, I called it not being a target.
I practiced the Kienzan for hours. I didn't fire it. I just held the disc above my palm while I moved, doing backflips and mid-air pivots. The disc wobbled, the yellow light flickering as my focus shifted, but I forced it to stay flat. I forced the rotation to stay high.
By the end of the second day, my hands were raw, and my brain felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. But the disc was stable.
I looked up at the stars, the cold wind of Planet Vegeta biting at my skin.
Lett was going to a cadet squad. Karr was home.
I closed my hand, crushing the energy, and began the walk back to the Royal Sector.
Back at the Royal Hangar, the sterile white floors and the hum of high-end machinery felt like a different world. I was back on Pod 712, finished with the door hinge and now focusing on the interior life-support overrides. It was tedious work, but the manual nature of it allowed me to keep my senses sharp without looking suspicious.
"You're back. I figured a scavenger would've picked you clean in those slums."
I didn't need to look up to know Ruca was leaning against the pod's hull. I'd felt her Ki signature, approaching from the main corridor.
"I'm harder to kill than I look, my lady," I said, my voice muffled as I worked inside the cockpit.
Ruca snorted, jumping up to sit on the edge of a tool crate, her tail flicking with a restless energy. "Doubtful. But you're better than the last three mechanics they sent. My father took the pod out for a short atmospheric test. He didn't scream at anyone when he got back, so you've done a decent job."
"Glad to be of service."
"The palace is on edge today," she said, her voice dropping as she glanced toward the open bay doors. "The King is in the training courts again. He's been meeting with the Cold Force ambassadors for three days straight. Word is, he's frustrated, still no heir to the throne, and the ambassadors are getting pushy about 'quota increases.' He's been taking it out on the commanders."
I stopped my wrench for a split second. No Prince Vegeta yet. That gave me a better idea of the timeline, but it didn't make the air any less heavy. The tension between the Saiyans and King Cold's empire was a powder keg, and the King was currently the one holding the match.
Suddenly, a thunderous boom echoed through the hangar, followed by the screech of tearing stone. A shockwave rattled the tools on my belt.
"Finally, some noise," Ruca said, her eyes lighting up. She hopped off the crate. "Come on, runt. You can't fix that pod if the hangar gets leveled by a stray blast. Let's see who's getting pulverized today."
I followed her to the edge of the hangar, maintaining a respectful distance.
The central courtyard was a massive pit of reinforced stone, currently being reduced to rubble. In the center stood Nappa. He looked different with the mohawk, younger and leaner, but his power was already monstrous compared to the average warrior, hovering around 4,000. He was trading blows with a member of the King's Guard, an Elite whose movements were so fast they left faint blurs in the air.
It wasn't a spar; it was a demolition.
Every time their fists collided, a ring of displaced air expanded outward, cracking the stone beneath them. Nappa was a wall of muscle, absorbing hits that would have vaporized a Low-Class warrior, while the Guard used the gravity to accelerate his strikes, aiming for Nappa's joints.
I wasn't terrified, I had seen the literal end of universes on a screen in my past life, but the physical reality was loud. It was messy.
They fought like animals. There was no economy of motion, no conservation of energy. Nappa was leaking Ki with every roar, wasting enough power in his missed swings to level a city block back on Earth. It was impressive in a "force of nature" sort of way, but it was incredibly inefficient.
"Look at that," Ruca whispered, her eyes wide with predatory hunger. "The Guard is trying to get under Nappa's guard, but Nappa doesn't care. He's just waiting to grab him."
I didn't say anything. To me, it just looked like two runaway trains crashing into each other. I noticed how Nappa overextended on his right hook. I noticed how the Guard's breathing was hitching every time he took a body blow. It wasn't "fear" that I felt; it was a realization of how much room there was for improvement. If I had Nappa's power and even a shred of proper technique, this fight would have been over in seconds.
"Who do you think has it?" Ruca asked, not looking at me.
"The Guard is faster," I noted, my voice flat. "But Nappa is heavier. Every time the Guard hits him, Nappa just... absorbs it. He's waiting for the Guard to tire out."
"Hmph. A worker's logic," she muttered, though she didn't seem annoyed.
The fight ended exactly as I expected. The Guard landed a spinning kick to Nappa's neck, a strike that sounded like a whip cracking. Nappa stumbled, his massive frame shaking the ground, but instead of falling, he lunged forward, catching the Guard's leg and slamming him into the floor with enough force to cause a minor earthquake.
The Guard didn't get up. Nappa stood over him, spitting a glob of purple blood onto the rubble, his chest heaving.
"Power wins," Ruca said, satisfied. She turned back toward the hangar, her interest already fading now that the blood had been spilled. "Go back to your pod, Cress. And make sure the life support is perfect. If my father has to deal with a 'headache' because of a pressure leak while the King is in this mood, he'll likely throw you into the training pit himself."
"Understood," I said, bowing my head.
I picked up my wrench. My hands were steady. I had three hours left on my shift. I spent them working in total silence, making sure every bolt was perfect.
The rest of the cycle passed without incident. When my shift ended, I headed back to the barracks. The halls were buzzing with the news of the fight, but I ignored the chatter.
I was lying on my bunk, staring at the ceiling, when Rask leaned over from his bed.
"Hey, kid. You hear? We're getting a 'special shipment' tomorrow. Not pods. Armor. High-grade stuff from the outer rim." Rask's voice was low. "The word is, it's for a personal guard. Someone big is coming to visit the King."
I sat up. "How big?"
Rask shrugged. "Scuttlebutt says it's one of the higher-ups from the Cold Force. Not just an ambassador. A General. Maybe even someone from the family."
My mind raced. If it was a General, it could be anyone. If it was family... it could be Frieza, or at the very least, a direct proxy. The timeline was definitely moving.
"Why the high-grade armor?" I asked.
"Because," Rask whispered, "when the big lizards show up, the King likes his men to look like they're worth more than the dirt they stand on. It's a vanity thing. But for us? It means double shifts. Get some sleep, Cress. Tomorrow is going to be long."
I laid back down, but I didn't sleep for a long time.
I had been focusing on pods, but high-grade armor? isn't that totally useless? At least in the show, nobody really gave a fuck about it.
--
Author's note: I wrote this in a hurry so if you see any paragraph that is repetitive or plot holes, Tell me. Anyway, hope you enjoy this story is far. Leave a comment, power stones and a review, thanks.