The Medical Bay in Sector 9 was silent, save for the rhythmic gurgle of the filtration systems. The air smelled of sterile chemicals and the sharp, medicinal tang of the healing fluid.
I stood in front of the reflective glass of a decommissioned tank, adjusting the collar of my grey jumpsuit. The bruises from the Hunter's blade were gone, replaced by fresh, pink skin that would soon harden into callouses. My shoulder felt stiff, but functional.
I closed my eyes, turning my gaze inward.
For years, my life had been a constant, agonizing exercise in restraint. I had visualized heavy iron doors slamming shut on my energy, suffocating the fire in my gut until it was nothing but a single light. I had forced my body to "5," a number so pathetically low it made me invisible.
But invisibility had a shelf life.
Garl had been suspicious. Zuto had mocked it. Even Ruca had seen through it immediately. A combat power of 5 surviving a planetary drop and a mercenary attack wasn't luck; it was a statistical impossibility. If I kept walking around with a single-digit power level after what happened on Arlia 4, I wasn't hiding anymore, I was broadcasting that I was an anomaly.
"Adjust the valve," I whispered to the empty room.
I focused on that mental dam. Instead of clamping it shut with panicked force, I turned the wheel. I let the pressure release. I let the energy flow from my core, filling my limbs, my chest, my head.
It felt like taking a deep breath after holding it.
I didn't open the floodgates. I didn't flare to my true maximum. I just let it settle at a new baseline.
I pulled the Scouter from my pocket, the battered, modified piece of junk I had salvaged years ago.
210.
I stared at the green digits.
Two hundred and ten.
It was mediocre. It was the power level of a standard grunt, a janitor with a bad temper, or a particularly aggressive cadet. It was boring. It was average.
And that was exactly what I needed.
"Adaptation," I rehearsed, testing the word on my tongue. "The response to trauma. The body hardening to ensure survival."
We got beaten, we broke, and we healed denser. No one questioned it. It was the fundamental biology of our race.
I clipped the Scouter to my belt and picked up my toolkit.
Being a 5 made me a target for curiosity. Being a 210 made me a piece of furniture. Just another Low Class warrior who had scraped by and gotten a little tougher for the trouble.
I opened the heavy door of the medical bay and stepped out into the dark corridor. The silence of the palace pressed in on me.
I was just adjusting the mask.
"Gotham needs me..." I whispered...
--
The barracks for Nappa's squad were located in the sublevels of the Royal Sector, far away from the silk drapes and scented air of Zarbon's guest quarters.
I walked in.
Zuto and Toma were sitting on the floor, drinking. Nappa was seated on his bunk, devouring a hunk of bone-in meat, ignoring everything around him.
I walked to my bunk the top one near the vent and tossed my bag down.
Beep.
The sound cut through the room.
Zuto stopped drinking halfway through. He tapped the side of the Scouter attached to his face. He frowned, tapped it again, and then turned his head slowly to look at me.
"Broken piece of junk," Zuto muttered, hitting the device. "Hey, Runt."
"Yes, Zuto?" I asked, unzipping my jumpsuit to change into my work clothes.
"My readings are glitching," Zuto said, his eyes narrowing. "It says you're reading at 210. Did you mess with my scouter?"
Toma looked up, snorting. "210? The pet? Don't make me laugh. He's a 5. He's always been a 5."
"Check it yourself," Zuto challenged.
Toma raised her wrist, mounted sensor. She pointed it at me.
Her eyebrows shot up. "Well, look at that. The trash has upgraded."
Nappa paused mid chew. He swallowed a massive piece of meat whole, then turned his gaze toward me. He didn't use a Scouter. He didn't need to. He just looked at me with the bored indifference of a predator observing a slightly larger rodent.
"Explain," Nappa grunted.
I didn't flinch. I turned to face them, keeping my posture submissive but steady.
"It was the training, Commander," I lied, keeping my voice flat. "The transfer officer... Ruca. She required a sparring partner before the mission. She didn't hold back."
"Ruca beat you?" Toma laughed. "I'm surprised you're not in a coma. That girl hits like a beast."
"She broke three ribs and my arm," I said, the lie coming easily now. "I spent two nights in the old recovery tanks in Sector 9. Then the mission... the stress."
I looked down at my hands, clenching them into fists.
"When I came out of the tank today... I felt different. Heavier. The tank forced a recovery adaptation."
Silence hung in the room for a few seconds.
Then, Zuto shrugged, returning to his bottle. "Makes sense. Even a piece of iron gets harder if you hammer it enough. Guess you're not totally made of glass."
"Still weak," Toma scoffed, though the malicious edge in her voice had dulled. "210 won't save you from a beam, Runt. It just means you'll die standing up instead of crawling."
"It's better than nothing," I murmured.
Nappa grunted, wiping grease from his mouth with the back of his hand. To him, the difference between 5 and 210 was the difference between an ant and a beetle. Both crunched the same under his boot.
"Who cares?" Nappa rumbled. "If you're done preening about your triple digit power level, grab a bucket. The latrines in the hangar backed up again. Make yourself useful, 200."
"At once, Commander."
I grabbed the cleaning supplies and headed for the door.
I kept my head down, but internally, I breathed a sigh of relief. They bought it.
They didn't see a threat. They didn't see a spy. They saw a grunt who had survived a beating and gotten a biologically standard participation trophy for it.
--
The Royal War Room was a place of shadows.
Unlike the bright, sterile aesthetic of the Cold Force, King Vegeta preferred the gloom of stone and flickering torches. It was atmospheric, intimidating, and perfect for hiding the expression on a King's face.
King Vegeta stood before a massive holographic table. The map of Planet Arlia 4 was displayed in ghostly blue light.
A single red dot on the map the transponder signal of the mercenary blinked once, then vanished.
Signal Lost. Bio Signs Terminated.
The King stared at the empty space where the dot had been.
He didn't scream. He didn't blast the table into dust. He stood perfectly still, his cape hanging motionless from his shoulders. His hands were clasped behind his back, gripping his wrist so tightly that the leather of his gloves creaked.
"Failure," King Vegeta whispered.
The word hung in the cold air.
He swiped his hand through the hologram, dismissing the map. He pulled up the squad report filed by Nappa.
Casualties: None. Squad Status: Green. Unit Two (Cress): Active.
"Incompetence," the King hissed through clenched teeth. "I pay a fortune for an Outer Rim hunter, a specialist, and he is dismantled by a mechanic?"
He began to pace, his boots echoing sharply on the stone floor.
This was not just a failed assassination; it was a complication. A massive, dangerous complication.
If Cress had died on the mission, it would have been a tragedy of war. Zarbon might have sneered, he might have complained about losing his "pet," but he would have moved on. Equipment breaks. Pets die. He would have soon forget.
But Cress was alive. And if the mercenary had been sloppy... if there was any trace...
No. The King stopped pacing.
He couldn't panic. Panic led to mistakes.
He couldn't simply order Garl or Nappa to execute the boy now. Cress had returned to the palace. He was back under the umbrella of Zarbon's ownership. If the King ordered a sudden execution inside the Royal Sector, it would look like defiance.
It would look like he was hiding something.
And King Cold's force was always watching for things that were hidden.
"You are lucky, boy," King Vegeta murmured, staring at the closed door of the war room. "You have insulated yourself with the very monsters I seek to overthrow."
He walked back to his throne and sat down, the heavy stone cold against his back.
He couldn't use a mercenary again. It was too risky. If Cress found proof, if he managed to whisper into Zarbon's ear that the King of the Saiyans was hiring hitmen to kill his own subjects... the political fallout would be catastrophic.
The King's eyes narrowed in the gloom.
He needed to be patient. He needed to be smarter.
"Nappa is a blunt instrument," the King mused. "He protects his squad like a territorial animal. He won't kill the boy without a reason."
So, he had to give Nappa a reason. Or better yet, put the squad in a situation where survival was impossible for the weak.
"No more mercenaries," King Vegeta decided, his voice calm, terrifyingly level. "Next time, I will not send a killer. I will send a catastrophe."
He tapped the console on his armrest.
"Computer. Flag Nappa's squad for the next rotation. Priority Assignment. I want them on the front lines of the meat conquest."
The computer chirped in acknowledgment.
"And make sure," the King added, a cruel smile touching his lips, "that their drop zone is in the heart of the battle."
He leaned back, watching the flames of the torches dance.
He would not make a scene. He would not tell Garl. He would not tell Paragus. He would keep his own counsel.
The boy was a loose end. And loose ends were best burned off quietly.
--
The Blind Spot was freezing, but the cold felt clarifying tonight.
I sat with my back against the rough stone of the foundation, looking up at the twin moons. today was not a full moon so there was no problem, but I still felt strange.
I heard the soft thud of boots hitting the dirt.
"You're early," Ruca said.
She walked out of the shadows. She was wearing her training bodysuit, but she didn't fall into a stance. Her body language was stiff, agitated.
"I saw the readings," she said, stopping a few feet away. "210. You dropped the suppression."
"It was necessary," I said, not looking at her. "Being a five was becoming a liability. 210 makes me boring. It fits the narrative."
"The narrative that I beat you half to death?" Ruca scoffed, crossing her arms. "I heard the rumors in the mess hall. You're making me sound like a sadist."
"It helps your reputation," I pointed out. "Commander's daughter, ruthless, breaks her sparring partners. It demands respect."
Ruca rolled her eyes, but she didn't argue. She walked over and sat down on the flat rock opposite me. She looked tired.
"So," she said, her voice dropping lower. "The mission. The vent accident. The 'dent' in the landing strut."
She looked at me, her eyes sharp.
"Tell me what really happened, Cress. No lies."
I reached into my boot. The metal of the data cylinder was warm against my skin. I pulled out the crushed, twisted remains of the device.
I tossed it to her.
Ruca caught it. She looked at the mangled metal, then at me.
"What is this?"
"A transaction receipt," I said. "I pulled it off the mercenary's body before I incinerated him."
Ruca frowned. She pulled a small interface tool from her belt, standard issue for squad leaders and plugged the cylinder in. The screen was cracked, but the data was still readable.
She scanned the code. I watched her face.
First, confusion. Then, recognition.
And finally, shock. Her eyes widened. Her skin paled. She stared at the small screen as if it were a venomous snake.
"This... this is the Royal Encryption," she whispered. "V-King-Alpha."
She looked up at me, horror dawning in her eyes.
"The King?"
"He paid five thousand credits," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "To have me killed. He wanted it to look like an accident of war."
She stood up, pacing away from me, her tail lashing violently.
"Why?" she hissed. "You're a Low Class! You're a mechanic! Why would the King of all Saiyans hire an assassin to kill you? It's... it's beneath him. It's dishonorable!"
"Because I know," I said.
Ruca spun around. "Know what?"
"I know that he's afraid," I said. "I know that he thinks Frieza is scared of the Super Saiyan legend. I played into his paranoia to survive the interrogation, Ruca. I told him what he wanted to hear. But now... now I'm a loose end."
"But it's just a myth for children..." Ruca stared at the palace walls towering above us.
For her entire life, the King had been the pinnacle of Saiyan strength and pride. He was the symbol of their race's dominance.
But hiring a mercenary to kill a loyal subject in the dark? That wasn't strength. That was cowardice.
"He sent us into that drop zone," Ruca murmured, her voice shaking with suppressed rage. "He risked the entire squad. He risked me. Just to get to you."
"Collateral damage," I said. "He doesn't care."
Ruca looked down at a rock. She kicked it, sending it skittering into the darkness.
"This is wrong," she said. It wasn't a whine; it was a judgment. "A King protects the pack. He doesn't cull it from the shadows."
She turned to me. The uncertainty was gone from her face.
"He's going to try again," she said.
"I know. But...," I looked up at the palace towers, gleaming in the moonlight.
"I'm safer here than I am out there."
Ruca looked at me like I was insane. "Safe? In the lion's den?"
"Think about it," I said, leaning forward. "Why didn't he execute me in the cell? Why did he hire a mercenary? Because inside these walls, I belong to Zarbon. I am the property of the Cold Force."
A dark smile touched my lips.
"The King is terrified of them. He won't touch me as long as I'm polishing Zarbon's mirrors. The palace isn't a prison, Ruca. It's a shield."
Ruca processed this. She looked at the palace, then back at me. She saw the logic. It was twisted, but it was sound.
"So you just... stay?" she asked. "You hide behind Zarbon's skirt until the Cold Force leaves?"
"No," I said. "I stay until I'm strong enough that I don't have to hide."
I stood up, brushing the dirt from my armor.
"The danger is the missions," I explained. "That's where he can get me. That's where he controls the variables. He'll send tougher enemies. He'll send us into storms. He'll try to crush me with the environment."
"So you'll refuse deployments?" Ruca asked. "You'll claim you're needed for maintenance?"
"No," I said again.
I clenched my fist. The memory of the Hunter's blade whistling past my nose played in my mind. The feeling of the Kienzan spinning in my hand. The rush of survival.
"I'm going on every mission," I said.
Ruca stared at me. "You're suicidal."
"I'm pragmatic," I corrected. "I hit a wall sparring with you, Ruca. I plateaued. But on Arlia? When that Hunter was trying to take my head off? My power spiked. My senses sharpened. Real combat... it's the only way to grow fast enough."
I looked her in the eye.
"The King wants to use the missions to kill me. I'm going to use the missions to get stronger. It's a race. Either he kills me, or I become something he can't kill."
Ruca was silent for a long time. She looked at the determination in my eyes, the lack of fear.
She let out a short, sharp laugh. She shook her head.
"You really are a freak," she said. But there was respect in her voice now. Genuine respect. "Using the King's assassination attempts as a training regimen. That's... that's the most Saiyan thing I've ever heard."
She stepped closer.
"Fine," she said. "If you're going into the fire, I'm going with you."
"You don't have to—"
"Shut up," she interrupted. "You showed me the receipt, Cress. You showed me the dishonor. I'm not fighting for the King anymore."
She held out her hand.
"We'll make the King regret his investment."
I looked at her hand. Then I took it. Her grip was iron hard.
"Deal," I said.
We stood there in the shadow of the palace, two conspirators against the crown.
Above us, the lights of the Royal Sector burned bright, hiding the rot beneath. I hated this place. I hated the politics, the fear, the constant looking over my shoulder.
But as I looked up at the tower where Zarbon slept, I realized the irony. The monster who had enslaved me was now the only thing keeping the other monster at bay.
I was a prisoner in a Cage.
But every time the door opened, I was going to come back with sharper claws.
------
Cress' current Power Level: 1200
I don't have much to say. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!