[I miss my grandfather...]
The recovery ward of the infant incubation center was too boring, after three years submerged in tepid nutrient gel. I floated in my glass cradle, breathing through the mask that fed me and muffled every sound. My tail, finally tough enough that a squeeze no longer made me blackout, was coiled around my waist.
A hiss broke the hum of machinery. Across the aisle, another pod opened, and a mid-level technician guided a pair of parents inside. Their scouters clicked as they checked the readout on the tiny boy inside: 120, they said. Still, the father's eyes softened for a heartbeat when he lifted his son free. I felt the kid's ki flicker in confusion and sent him a silent Hang in there, little guy.
Gel sloshed as I flexed my fingers. Even with deliberate light training for three years, simple ki-threading through my muscles, meditative, I'd crept to a power level of 2,000. Meanwhile, the royal bulletin said King Vegeta himself was only sitting at ten thousand. Not that I'd advertise the comparison.
The parents across from me fitted their boy into a tiny combat suit. The mother smoothed his hair, barely a second, but I felt the warmth behind the motion. Saiyans weren't sentimental? Sure. And nova flares were just sparks.
Gel-filtered boredom threatened to swamp me again, so I closed my eyes and stretched my budding ki-sense farther. The city outside thrummed: low-tier soldiers in the hundreds, one distant flare almost as bright as King Vegeta, probably Bardock finishing a mission debrief if the gossip I'd overheard was right. Interesting. Strong, but still a notch below the king. Good benchmark.
Minutes slid by. The newly freed family left, the door sealed, and silence reclaimed the ward. My reflection stared back: big onyx eyes, messy black spikes drifting in the fluid, mask locked over my nose and mouth. Three full years of internal monologue and tail crunches; no wonder I sometimes fantasised about stealing a body instead of growing one.
I resumed ki-threading, pushing a thin current through every muscle group. Little ripples danced through the gel. Somewhere above, a monitor showed my vitals spiking again. Yeah, let's not do that again.
The door hissed once more, voices filtering in, female, warm. I recognised Gine instantly; her ki felt gentle. Two stronger signatures followed, Bardock, the other around 2,000 like mine.
They spoke in muffled tones to the duty medic, too soft for me to catch through the glass and gel, which was surprising, cause of my better hearing, then moved deeper into the ward. Probably checking on Raditz, makes sense.
"Is that her?" the woman asked, looking directly at my pod with curiosity. Her voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of something else, perhaps anticipation?
"Yep, that's Celera," Gine confirmed, her gentle voice soothing my anxious heart. Oh no, don't tell me I had a crush.
"Well, she will have to wait a bit longer than," Bardock said gruffly, stepping forward.
As they approached Raditz's pod first, I couldn't help but feel odd. Was it finally happening? Was I about to be released from this prison, and the thought excited me. I watched as they clothed Raditz in a jumpsuit similar to the one I had seen earlier, and then made their way towards my pod.
The mystery woman stepped up to my pod, her gaze locked on mine. She seemed to be searching for something within me, but I wasn't sure what it could be.
"So you sure you can do this, Fasha?" Gine asked as she turned to look at the woman who was with them.
"Well, it can't be that hard, right?" She joked, Was this my mother? Hmm, I think I remember her being a part of Bardock's team.
"517," Bardock muttered after a glance at his scouter. He sounded satisfied, but not impressed. Raditz preened anyway and tried (failing) to look impressive. Gine's laugh softened the moment; she tousled the boy's hair until it stood even wilder.
Across the aisle, my pod flicked from red to green. The support fluid began to drain. Fasha stepped up to the glass. Close up, she looked nothing like the anime: shorter hair, sharper eyes, a faint scar on her cheek that the animators never drew. Her scouter pinged, and she blinked.
"Two… thousand," she mouthed, lips quirking. "At three years old?"
Bardock leaned over her shoulder. "Good numbers," he judged.
Gine's eyes widened. "She's calm," she said quietly, watching me float as though the draining gel were bathwater. "Reminds me of… well, me."
"Great," Fasha sighed, folding her arms. "Another Gine in the making."
Smack. Bardock's hand clipped the back of her head. "Quit whining. You could use some calm in your life."
The glass slid aside before Fasha could retort. Cool air hit my face; the mask disengaged with a hiss. I took my first unfiltered breath, coughed once, and spoke—voice gravelly from disuse but clear enough.
"Hi."
All three adults stared. Raditz's jaw sagged; he was used to being the centre of attention. Fasha recovered first. She scooped me out in one smooth lift, setting me upright on the pod rim so we were eye level. "I'm Fasha. Your—" She hesitated, glanced at Bardock, then chose blunt honesty. "—your aunt. Your mother was my sister." A beat passed. The room felt awfully loud with monitors clicking.
I nodded. "Okay." The word came out soft, but I held her gaze. Fasha's shoulders eased a fraction. "Let's get you dressed and ready to go," Fasha said, as she removed the metal pant with the long tube connected to it, before passing me a jumpsuit and helping me to put it on.
"Excited to finally be free?" Gine asked softly, her motherly demeanor put me at ease.
"Definitely," I replied, trying to keep my excitement in check. I had waited for this moment for so long, and it was finally happening. Fasha ruffled my hair, her touch a shade rougher than Gine's, then dug a miniature battle-suit from a supply crate. Dark charcoal fabric, no shoulder pads. Sensible.
"Arms up," she ordered. I complied; the suit slid on, still warm from the re-processor. Tail port last. I coiled the limb through the gap and flexed experimentally. Bardock's scouter clicked again as he sized me up. "Kid's keeping her output steady," he noted. "Doesn't seem to drop."
Raditz, dressed and puffing his chest, marched over. "I'm older," he declared, as though that settled some ranking. "You better not cry during sparring."
I smiled. "I really hope you can give me a good warm-up."
Bardock barked a single laugh; Gine pretended to scold but couldn't hide her amusement. Raditz flushed crimson and stomped back to his mother's side. With that, Fasha lifted me into her arms, and we made our way out of the medical room, Bardock, Gine, and Raditz following close behind. A whole new life awaited me outside these walls, and I couldn't wait to experience it all. I grabbed my aunt's scouter which she didn't seem to mind.
As I equipped it, looking at Raditz's, I clicked the button and watched as the numbers began to rise before stopping at 517. Well, he was stronger than Kakarot, wait, I mean Goku, why did I call him that? Also, it was weird to see a number instead of comparing the ki to my own.
As we continued to walk through the facility, I noticed how some Saiyans around us were in medical pods, and as I scanned some of them, they were a mix between 200 and 3000. They were pretty strong. I couldn't wait to fight some of them when I got the chance. As for the others, the weaker ones, I wouldn't waste my time on them.
Turning my attain to Bardock, I wondered how strong he was right now. Well shit, a whopping power level of 9,400. Seems like he was close to reaching that 10000 mark he had in the manga. Turning to Gine, hers was a disappointing 1030, well, at least I know where Kakorat got it from. Still, Bonus Points for being cute, I thought. Finally turning my head to check Fasha, 2000 Hmm. Like I thought about Gine, she would also get bonus points for being cute. Well, cute wasn't really the word, perhaps badass would be better?
"Hey, I have a question: how strong was my mother?" I asked, deciding to see where she stood in power.
"My sister had a power level of 5000, which is why she managed to become an Elite," Fasha answered. Well, that's good given that they never trained. My heart raced as my anticipation grew. I knew that I was young, but thankfully, I was mature mentally and ready for the challenges that awaited me in this new life. Maybe I could convince Fasha and Gine to train with me. I'd definitely save them both.
Finally, we reached the exit of the medical facility, the bright sunlight streaming in through the large doors. My eyes widened as I took in the bustling Saiyan city before me, towering structures, flying warriors, and the cacophony of daily life. It was overwhelming, but it was everything I had been waiting for.
"Are you ready, Celera?" Fasha asked, her gaze locked onto mine. I could see the pride in her eyes, as well as the determination to help me succeed. "Absolutely," I replied, my voice filled with excitement that had bubbled over.
"Alright then," Fasha said, a smile crossing her face. "Let's go home."
Wind screamed past my ears while Fasha ferried me over the capital's skyline, one gloved hand locked around the back collar of my suit. Raditz dangled from Bardock's grip a few paces ahead, legs flailing for balance. Down below, warriors streaked between platforms or collided mid-air in crackling fist-fights.
Fasha dipped low to dodge a freight skimmer, then angled west. "Hold tight," she called, not bothering to glance back. I tucked my chin, letting the rush of air steal anything smart I'd have said.
As we flew, I couldn't help but ask questions about everything I saw below. "What's that building?" My curiosity was insatiable. Fasha and Gine patiently answered each question, while Bardock chimed in with occasional gruff remarks.
As we continued our journey, the scenery changed from the dense urban landscape of the city to the more rural outskirts where individual homes were located. It wasn't long before we reached our destination.
Before parting ways, Bardock placed a firm hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye. "You have a lot of potential, Celera," he said. "Don't waste it." I nodded at him.
I hit the ground on steady feet the moment she let go. Gine touched down beside us, Raditz landed with a satisfied "Ha!" Fasha keyed the door and shoved it with one boot. It stuck; she shoved harder.
Training vests draped over chair backs, empty ration tins stacked like artillery shells, three identical pink leotards slumped across a sofa. It smelled of sweat, polish oil, and something fried hours ago. Fasha scooped a breastplate off the floor and lobbed it onto a hook without looking.
"Home," she announced, half-apologetic. "Step where you can see the floor."
Gine chuckled and began gathering the stray leotards. Bardock flicked a finger against one of the tins. I said nothing, just took it in. Messy. Back on Earth, my room was the same. Fasha nudged a gear crate aside and sat on it, patting the space in front of her. "Come here, Celera."
I obeyed, folding my legs the way she did. Our eyes were level now. She studied my face a long second before speaking, voice lower than the wind outside.
"Your mother's name was Celari," she began. "My big sister by five years older. Tough, stubborn, kept dragging me into rooftop scraps when we were kids." Her mouth twitched fondly at the memory. "She gave birth to you, took exactly one week in recovery, then strong-armed the med orderlies and shipped out on a purge run toward the outer moons."
I listened, Fasha's gaze drifted to some point past my shoulder. "The pod transponder went dark in orbit. Search crew found the craft, hull holed, cockpit blood-splattered. No body, no scouter." She exhaled once, shoulders tight. "Official mark: K.I.A. I kept checking flight manifests for months anyway."
Silence pooled. Bardock stood with arms crossed; even he didn't interrupt. Raditz kicked at a boot buckle on the rug, uncertain. Gine laid a gentle hand on Fasha's shoulder.
"And my father?" I asked, because the question floated in every pause.
"Name was Leeku," Fasha said. "He and Celari weren't bonded long. The last report had him joining a deep-space raider company. Could be alive, could be dust." A shrug, not unkind, just honest. "Haven't heard a word since."
The facts settled in my chest. Bardock cleared his throat. "You're in good hands. Fasha maybe be a hard ass, but shes not one to back down from any challange."
"Flatterer." She flicked a wrist at him, then ruffled my hair, rough, affection disguised as annoyance. "You hungry?" My stomach answered for me with a growl that everyone heard. Raditz snorted.
"Food it is." Fasha shoved a mound of armour onto the kitchen counter and rooted through storage drawers. Gine joined her, quietly steering the chaos: she found a clean pan, grabbed a lot of meat from the freezer, and lit the burner. The scent of sizzling filled the room.
While they worked, Bardock gestured for Raditz and me to follow him out back. The yard was just a strip of hard-packed ground bordered by broken wall panels, a perfect makeshift arena. Bardock lifted Raditz by his collar again; the boy grinned, used to it. He did the same to me, thumb and forefinger iron around my suit tag.
He threw us in the air, and somehow expected us to fly, but we didn't. We both ended up crashing into the ground. This kept going on for 20 minutes. The door slid open behind us. "Meal's ready!" Gine called.
Back inside, plates thudded onto the low table. Meat slabs, root mash, spicy cubes that stung the nose. Fasha claimed a corner seat, wiped her hands on her thigh armour, and nodded at me to eat first. I obeyed, tearing into the slab; heat and salt flooded my mouth.
Mid-chew, Fasha leaned closer. "You've got her eyes, you know," she murmured—quiet so only I caught it. "Celari's. Same fire...."
I swallowed, the burn of spice and something softer mixing in my chest. "I'll make her proud," I said simply.
"Good." She clinked her cup against mine and downed the drink in one swallow. "Because tomorrow I won't go easy just because you're family."
Bardock snorted around a mouthful of mash. "She barely went easy on me the first time we sparred."
"Yeah, and you still owe me a rib for that." Fasha shot back, earning a grudging grin from him. Gine rolled her eyes affectionately. Raditz tried to flex again; Fasha flicked a rice kernel at his forehead. He yelped, then laughed, then flicked one back. In seconds, it turned to a volley; spicy cubes became ammunition; Gine sighed and fetched a cloth.
I watched the mess grow, laughing when a stray cube bounced off my shoulder. Night settled outside, and Bardock, Gine, and Raditz left. Fasha scooped armour off a narrow cot in the adjoining room. "This one's yours," she said. "Sheets are clean. Ignore the scorch mark on the wall, I got annoyed at my alarm once."
I stepped inside. Small window looking toward the starport, pillow stuffed with spare under-suits, perfect. As she turned to leave, I caught her sleeve. "Thank you," I said.
Fasha's eyes softened. "Get some rest, kid. Tomorrow we work."
She hit the lights. I lay back in unfamiliar darkness, listening to distant brawls outside, to Fasha clanking through armour she still hadn't stored. My mother had flown into space and never come home. My father was a name and a question mark. And I fell asleep.
The next morning, we had to head to the back of the house, where she grabbed me and flew us away towards the outer lands of the city to a training ground. In the vast training grounds, I could see other Saiyans fighting, or as they called it, training. As Fasha landed and set me down, I clenched my small fists tight, a mix of excitement and nerves coursing through my veins. Fasha stops at a scuffed circle in the dirt, rolls a shoulder, and points. "Line."
I step to it. My boots crunch on old pebbles. My heart beats quickly, but the rhythm feels sharp, not scared. A thin crowd drifts closer, people on break, a few techs in Frieza-issue armor, two lieutenants with clipboards who pretend they're not curious. Nobody's betting on the kid. Fine.
Fasha floats a meter above the circle, arms loose, tail lashing. I stay on the ground, knees bent in my old street-corner stance: lead foot angled, fists close to cheekbones. The only difference now is I've got a tail to mind.
She gives no countdown. Just drops.
Crack, her heel snaps toward my temple. Instinct yanks me backward. I feel the wind rake my hair. She lands on the same foot and flows through, fist already rising. I jam my forearm across and catch the punch on bone. Shock numbs the limb to the elbow.
Fasha kicks again, this time a low sweep aimed at my ankle. I hop and answer with a straight right. It tags her chin with a flat thud, but she took the hit, spinned, and backhands my ribs. Air flies out of me. I stagger three steps, vision sparkling. She doesn't wait, knee to the gut, elbow to the spine as I double.
I taste dirt. The flats smell of iron and dust. My ribs scream, but nothing gives. I blink twice, force breath back in.
"Good chin," she says, circling. "Stand up."
I stand.
Round two.
She glides in again, faster. Her feet barely kiss the ground before she's airborne, firing short bursts of ki from soles just for angle. I track the flashes, note the pattern: slide-step, hop, pivot, back-step. She repeats it twice, sees I've noticed, grins.
I crouch low, tail braced, and lunge the moment she touches down. My shoulder hits her waist. We tumble. The crowd flinches back as we roll through the ring of scuffed lines. I plant a fist in her side mid-spin; she grunts but hooks her tail around my neck, yanks, and we separate.
We come up facing each other, breathing hard. Sweat beads on her brow; dust cakes my knees.
People mumble at the edge.
"That kid's still up?"
"Maybe Fasha's playing."
"Doesn't look like play."
Fasha swipes blood from her lip and smiles widely. "Not bad for a first fight."
I lick copper from my own mouth. "Teach me a better one."
Her eyes flare. She rockets up thirty meters, halts, then dives, a living spear. I track her line, wait, swing side. She adjusts mid-plunge, clips my shoulder instead of my skull, but momentum drives me sideways. I roll, pop up, and fire a point-blank jab at her knee while she recovers.
She grimaces as it lands, answers with a palm-heel to my nose. Stars bloom behind my eyes; warm liquid drips. I wipe, step in, copy the same palm strike stalled at half power, and test it. She slips, but I feel the timing, the angle. File it.
We trade blows that way. Her kicks had reach; It was hard to get in close. With each passing moment, Fasha's skill and experience became increasingly evident. Her counters were quick and well-placed, showcasing her prowess. And once she started to strike back, her kick caught me in the side, sending me crashing back to the ground. Quickly, I rolled out of the way as she followed up with a dropkick where I once was.
As I got up, I held my side as I thought, 'Right, note to self, avoid getting hit as much as possible. Ten minutes in, she's breathing heavier. Not winded, just surprised. She smacks my forearm with a hard parry and mutters, "You learn fast."
"Fasha, you gonna let the toddler copy your whole kit?"
She doesn't answer. She shifts gears instead, air again, spinning back kick from above. I duck, feel the gust, launch a rising uppercut that stops an inch shy; couldn't reach. Each one forced Fasha back a bit, but her smile was growing even bigger. While the other Saiyans had been watching began to cheer. Throwing a kick toward her chest, I felt it connect as I pushed her back.
My smile grew as we rushed each other again. Shock registers in her eyes. "Good trick." Ground rushes up as I land. She lands opposite, chest heaving, dust halo around her boots. "Again."
We crash together, body shots, head shots, tail feints. Every hit she lands hurts less now. Every hit I land lands harder; knuckles find ribs, heel finds thigh.
She feints a right cross. I parried too early. It's a Trap. Her knee drives into my stomach. Spit fliesand I fold. She swings a hammer fist at the back of my neck. Somehow I twist, tail lashes her ankle, yank. She topples; I sprawl on top, throw elbows that thud into her guard.
She bucks, thrusts a palm under my chin, blasts a small ki pulse. My head snaps back; she scrambles free, shoulders dusty.
A hush falls. Even Frieza's clipboard twins stop writing. Fasha rotates her neck until it pops, and grins so wide. "You're doing far better than I expected."
Blood runs from my nose to my lip. I grin back. We've lost track of time; it could be minutes. Sweat stings my eyes; dust sticks to every scrape. Fasha keeps the pressure on: float in, one-two-low kick, float out, repeat. I'm reading the rhythm now, but my arms are heavy, and my calf screams where she clipped it earlier.
She skims in again, boots barely skirting the clay, and snaps a straight kick for my chest. I slap it wide, but her follow-up tail-hook ropes my ankle. Yanking me forward, I stumbled, eating a short elbow across the jaw.
We break apart, both heaving for air. Around us, the ring has doubled in size from our scuffle. The onlookers are silent now, nobody is sure what they're seeing. I flex numb fingers, gather my ki. It thrums under the skin, hot and eager.
She notices the stance, one hand forward, palm up, the other braced behind it, and prowls sideways, cautious for the first time. "What are you—?"
I dig heels, swirl the energy in my leading palm. It spins like a miniature storm, crackling white-blue, dragging orange dust into a bright spiral.
Fasha's eyes flare. "Kid—"
"Shredder Shot!"
The orb condenses, whines, and then I drive forward with everything left. Ground blurs. She tries to lift, too late. My palm slams her cuirass dead-center. The ki detonates in a tight cone, shredding airflow, shrieking like torn metal. Light flashes. A shockwave pops in my ears.
Fasha rockets backward, skids across the yard on her heels, boots carving twin trenches before she manages to brace. Smoke curls off her chestplate; the impact left a fist-deep dent, hairline cracks webbing outward. She stares at it, breath rasping, half disbelief, half fierce pride.
The crowd explodes, shouts, and curses, someone laughing like this is the best show they've had in weeks. Even the Frieza-issue lieutenants lower their clipboards, mouths hanging.
I'm swaying on my feet; the blast stripped half my reserves. Arms feel hollow. But adrenaline keeps me upright. One more exchange, maybe two—
Fasha's grin flashes feral. "Name your attacks later."
A zig, a feint, then she's behind me. Instinct turns me, but not fast enough; her tail snakes my wrist, pinches nerves, yanks me off balance. I swing a desperate back-fist; she ducks, plants a palm to my sternum, and fires a tight ki burst. Air leaves my lungs. The ground rushes up; I bounce, roll twice. Dust fills my mouth.
I push to a knee. She's already above me, one foot hovering just off the clay, arms relaxed but ready. I lurch, throw a hook on pure reflex, she side-steps, taps the punch aside, catches my collar, and drops me flat with a shoulder wrench that steals the last of my strength.
"Done," she says, voice steady. "Yield."
I blink sweat out of my eyes, stare up at the sky. Chest burns like a forge below. I give the tiniest nod, I hate nodding, but I'm cooked. "Yeah, I give up."
In a breath, the pressure lifts. She stands, offers a hand. I take it, let her haul me upright. Legs tremble, but hold. Dust billows off my suit; blood trickles from a cut near my eyebrow. The ring of spectators quiets, waiting.
Fasha examines the dent in her armor, then looks at me, really looks, measuring. She huffs a laugh. "First bout and you nearly cored my chestplate. Wild."
I wipe blood on my forearm, swallow copper. "Had to try something."
She ruffles my hair with rough affection and turns to the crowd. "Show's over. Now fuck off."
Murmurs swell as people drift off, already arguing who really won. The Frieza officers jot furious notes before jogging away. Soon it's just us and the lingering dust.
Bardock strides in from the shade, Raditz trotting behind, eyes saucer-wide. Bardock studies the battlefield, the cracked plate on Fasha, and the wobble in my stance. He grunts. "Good hit. This will give you a good lesson."
"Yeah," I rasp, still catching breath.
Gine appears with a canteen, presses it into my hands. Water is warm, tastes like heaven. She dabs my cut with her sleeve, clicks tongue at the bruise blooming on my cheek.
Fasha flexes the abused armor once more, then smirks at me. "Tomorrow, we fix your footwork. Fair trade?"
My grin splits the crusted blood. "Fair."
Raditz finally finds words. "You— You're crazy." Sounds half impressed, half offended. Fasha took that blast and kept going.
"Keep talking and you're next," Fasha teases, cuffing his hair. He squeaks, scampers behind Gine.
Bardock folds arms. "Name like 'Shredder Shot', you have a good naming sense."
I nod, "Thanks."
[This week, things will be slow, next week it will only be 4 books getting updated.]]