Chapter Text
For King Vegeta, it had been an easy decision. The advice of his peers was held in little account given his overall stature comparatively (after all, who would dare correct the king in his endeavours), but his major domo had made a good point. Disposing of children was a dark task, regardless of the reason or purpose. Securing Prince Vegeta's future as the strongest of all Saiyans was imperative, and the child of a colonel bearing a birth power of 920? Preposterous, even when he had beheld the scrawny infant with his own eyes–shards of glass quietly clattering beneath Broly's pod in a pool of incubation fluid, pure unadulterated power seeping through the cracks in the casing.
King Vegeta's fingers drew over the platelets in his armor once more. He'd changed after Paragus had burst into his throne room and attempted to lay hands on him–delivering a meager blast to his chest. Copper, the taste of his own blood, had returned to his mouth for the first time in years–perhaps since before he'd taken Cassava's hand in marriage. Perhaps this insatiable cold pit in his stomach would subside in the aftermath of his choice.
Paragus had been none too pleased. King Vegeta could hardly empathize. He'd never find himself in the same position, considering his own standing amongst society. Though the king mused, imagining if some great figure had decided to swoop Prince Vegeta beneath his very nose, and loose him into the galaxy. The wrath of a king, nor a father in general, could be snubbed. His wise advisors had suggested banishment to Paragus as well–however, the King could not abide by that. His cape quietly billowed, drifting upon gilded trims and well-worn cobblestones as his thoughts floated far beyond the ornate stained glass of the throneroom's windows. King Vegeta squinted as red hues flooded his vision–many of his guards could hardly tell it apart from his typical scowling demeanour. Vegeta wouldn't have it any other way.
Sending the child to a backwater such as Earth, lacking in (according to the Freeza Force's known intel) space travel or advanced technology of any kind was mercy enough. He'd initially thought to send the child to Planet Vampa, let the boy be torn asunder by the beasts–thankfully Vizier Rutabaga noted the high probability the child would become far too strong on such a challenging world.
"Saiyans grow stronger as we fight, sire–" Rutabaga nearly lost his vocal chords in that moment, in the direction the king's thoughts had been trailing, "and should his father follow, they may have means of escape. Would it not be best to send the boy to a peaceful world, and squander his potential?"
Promotion was unusual for the lower or mid class of Saiyans, especially those already selected as attendants to house Vegeta–but the king had considered one right then for his subordinate. Of course, the only catch being the execution, or detainment of Paragus. Catching the poor sod in the hangar bay, even attempting to coerce some pilot into joining his little joyride, was hardly a challenge. Yet again, Rutabaga brought another idea worth scoffing at.
Paragus was far more useful alive than dead, Vegeta mused as the dull scratching of boots upon elegant carpet transitioned toward solid footfalls upon rock, descending ever deeper into the darkness before him. A man driven to his work, with the passionate, fiery rage of a man possessed–was far more persistent and effective than a dead one. Shadows bled into flickering light, hues of orange weaving between void and brick. For many, sealed within the depths of the castle dungeon, torchlight was the closest thing they'd ever see to the sun again. A shuffling of armor rattled within the chamber–guards rising to salute, or fumbling to kneel. Vegeta could hardly cast a glance in their direction, rather, sauntering before the one cell of note.
Paragus' frame, once swollen to that of a preening peacock, had since been shackled and flayed to the point where the colonel best resembled a whipped dog than a proper warrior. His shackles alone signified his presence aside from the silhouette's presence in the corner, glinting in the miniscule allowance of comfort he'd been given. Nothing that would soothe the loss of a son, Vegeta thought, but it would do for the insubordinate wretch. Paragus' voice was barely audible, rattling between the bars–like a snake dragged through gravel, writhing within its death throes.
"So the king returns to grace me with his presence." Paragus knelt forth, solitary eye glaring between the shadows. A wheeze escaped between cracked, chapped lips. "Forgive my tone, your highness. You have long since expended my good will. So I suggest you get to the point."
"Do you stand in a position to make demands of me, Colonel?"
"PAH!" His eye squeezed shut, disappearing into the shadow once more as his body shook with dry laughter–before returning to the light. "Do you find yourself in a mindset where I'd wish to see your weaselly visage, my liege? Don't lecture me about position, kidnapper, morality may be the only stance in which I outrank you–yet it stands to reason it is the only one that matters to me."
King Vegeta's arms drew into a folded defense, boots pressed to cold, worn steel–he could practically feel the bars, in tandem with the vicious stabbing he'd assumed Paragus wished to deliver with that glare of his.
"I wish to make a deal."
"And what makes you think I'd take your generous opportunity…?"
"If you do as I say… I may deliver you the means to which to find your child."
The speed of a man possessed was little to scoff at–as if Paragus had blended his very soul with the blackness that so enveloped him, fingers emerging from the blackness, grasping toward Vegeta. He'd stepped back, of course–for the force at which Paragus' arms had shaken and forced their way between the frame of the cell bars would have killed any lesser man. Strength unmatched by mental fortitude, it seemed.
King Vegeta thanked himself, for his hypotheticals of losing his own boy would never come to pass. Paragus' solitary eye had sunken into its socket, veined and wet with dried tears–lips pulled into an animalistic growl. His struggles to reach further than the cell had been pitiful–yet proved the king's theory.
"YOU LIE!" Spittle leapt from his mouth, flecking to the cobblestone beneath.
"I have never once lied, Paragus, and I need not start now. You see, in the months since your imprisonment, I've found myself in a precarious position." Paragus' arms hand slumped to the bar just above the lock upon the door, fingers wrapped within the hole of the lock. Cells were… dramatic. Yes, Saiyans could rip them from their hinges with little effort, however, it was the mere humiliation–knowing your escape would call for swift and immediate tracking and execution from one's superiors. Yes, it was this fear he could leverage.
"Lord Freeza's actions and requests of the Saiyan armies have become far more… frivolous. Children–while low class, still useful in terms of maintaining population–are flung to the stars as invasion implants. The bar is raised further than I would wish it to in that regard. Elite warriors are sent to their deaths in far greater capacity. Freeza has not simply become careless–I believe he is deliberate in the expenditure of our men."
Paragus' haggard brows raised, muscles trembling as he rose to eye level once more–cheekbones pressed between the iron bards. "What does this have to do with my son?"
"I made request that you be transferred to Lord Freeza's flagship–as a tactician. You will spy on him–and report to me what he plans to do. Whether it be wholesale genocide, or reduction of our populace–something has gone awry. Need I continue…? Or do you plan to abide by my terms?"
Paragus' hand drift from the bars, stepping back into the blackness. Silence, unbroken with the exception of the flame's silent crackling.
"Guards. Bring the torch closer, so I may see our dear colonel…?"
Paragus' knee had met the cobblestone–hands flat against the rock.
"That's more like it. Thank you, Colonel."
The void that had greeted King Vegeta upon his descent parted with the glow of the torchlight–as one of the guards had insisted upon following him up to the surface. Lunch–Vegeta could understand, despite sharing little in common with the middle class. No Saiyan could exist without fuel.
"My lord–did you mean it?"
"Hmn?"
"Did you… really plan on letting him see his kid again? The mutant kid?"
"HA! No. Paragus will be dead long before that will ever occur. Have you never heard of penal labor…?"
"Dad… Dad… DAD, seriously, wake up!"
Waking up to your loudmouthed son is a pain when your child is... a child. When they're into their twenties, it is far more irritating–no matter how much you love them. Especially so after nearly sixteen hours awake, at your desk, without a drop of coffee to spare. Dr. Gero's eyes could barely crack open, his mouth drawing to a forced, light grin as his office chair idly rolled back, crumpling the drooping sleeves of his lab coat perched atop the back of his seat against the floor.
"Hn–good morning, or afternoon, to you too my son. Has your search for the elusive beast gone as well as we'd hoped…?"
Truth be told, Gero didn't exactly expect a positive answer. Commander Red had set them forth on a rather impossible endeavour–locate the source of mass disappearances, collateral damage and deaths near one of their coastal bases–and reign in whatever monster had caused it for their use. In the span of four months, they had lost:
Twenty-three tanks
Over 40 planes
Spent upwards of 180,000 zeni on ammunition
And lost 243 men. Not that Gero had complained much, given he was permitted, by contract, to keep the cadavers frozen in his lab. Perfect for experiments involving his cyborgs project, which the commander had so rudely directed his attention AWAY from. Gero's fingers combed idly through his thinning hair, tangled fibers snapping–pain firing from the base of the follicles. A sigh escaped between his lips, before adjusting his slipping glasses from the tip of the nose, to the bridge.
Gevo towered above him, just as he did even as a teenager, with a polite wave. His hot-orange mohawk dipped slightly as Gero's towering son knelt slightly to meet his father's eye–cradling a swathed bundle of cloth amidst his gargantuan arms.
"Gevo, I swear if you've taken in another kicked puppy–you know we cannot have another incident like last time." Gero scoffed, palm pressed firm against his spine as he leaned backward–illiciting a pop. "Ngh. My report to Staff Officer Black cannot be chewed to shreds."
"Well, unlike the last dog…" Gevo grinned, his fingers curling atop the blanket, before gently pulling it back. Messy black hair sprouted from the bundle… then a face, and blinking eyes.
"Do you think this little guy might be a little more help to our research?"
A child? Had Gevo–no, Gevo wasn't the type to snoop amidst Gero's personal belongings. Neither had he even heard of Gero's more… experimental android projects. Then, why a child…? Questions rooted, until the tail–like that of a lemur, or perhaps a monkey, drifted from the bundle.
"I think we found our monster on the coast!" Gero stepped closer, his own hands pulling back the blanket further around the child's neck.
Uncanny valley–the feeling of revulsion or eeriness seeing something attempting to resemble humanity. Gero was familiar, considering the extensive work and remodeling on his own projects. Latex skin, distorted facial features. Hell, he could probably be a better plastic surgeon than a scientist, if the damned board would give him back his medical license. To ape being human, to play at the very notion, triggered a primal response within the human brain. And right now, the child had sent him into overdrive.
Upon further inspection on the operating table, the child's hair was thick, and tensile–akin to a harp string. Clumped, unnatural. The boy's face was, furthermore, an enigma. Sunburnt skin, severely so, as if the child hadn't left the confines of wherever he'd come from prior to his savage attack upon the Red Ribbon Army. His brows were thick, unlike a boy of his age (Gevo's only really grew in till he was seven, however the boy wouldn't let him talk about that). Pure, void black. The same as his eyes–unusual for any being living on Earth. No human iris could contain enough melanin to render the outer layer pitch black. Either a case of severe aniridia, or a biological miracle.
Gevo's ramblings about the boy's origins drifted in one ear, and out the other. Battles to restrain the towering beast with zip chords, followed by the bombardment of missiles, only for the child to shrink with the setting moon and rising sun. All paltry, all useless, until–
"We loaded up the pod we found and brought it in, if you want a look."
Gero's wrist snapped toward his chest, the child's eyelids closing once more. "The pod?"
As the two stepped into the hall and Gevo drew the child into his arms once more, his gaze turned back to Gero.
"We couldn't even land a scratch on it, much less singe the fur. All we really did was track him across the grounds while avoiding death. Hell, it's lucky me and Yellow got out alive." Gevo pulled the blanket over the child's head, as if the fabric would avert any wayward glances the passing soldiers cast the doctor and his son's way. Rattles of hellos and "SIR!" bounced off Gevo's back, nary a greeting cast toward Gero himself. Gero didn't mind much–his son deserved the credit.
"I'm simply glad you are alive, my boy. But I suggest you take a few days rest. I figure there are quite a few wounds under that fresh uniform of yours." Gevo chuckled, his fingers running over what meager bandages dotted his face.
"That obvious? Don't worry dad–I'm not that reckless. Ope–we're here!" Gevo's spare hand idly caught the worn push plate of the loading dock door, pressing against the steel as the door swung forth–Gero following close behind. Gero hadn't come to the loading dock much, considering his position was mostly stationed in the laboratory. His only real visitors were the few he made small talk with–Frappe, Violet, Silver–and his son. If the army invested this much money in a space for himself, perhaps the android soldier project would have come along more smoothly.
Dock workers swarmed over the various palettes and machinery. Some, clutching boxes from horridly awkward angles and inching along more like a turtle than a man. A few of the more intelligent fellows seemed to be squabbling over the directions on a forklift. Most, if not all, snapped to attention upon Gevo's entrance into the room.
"COLONEL CORAL, SIR!" Gevo's hand soon rose to the back of his head–the boy was embarrassed. Why wouldn't he be–this army's ridiculous color coding scheme made Gero shy to even say he was related to the group. Frappe nearly codenamed him "Head Scientist Gray"--Gero nearly knocked his block off for that one.
"No need to call me that, guys. Is the artifact from the last mission on the coast?"
"YES SIR!" Gevo nearly fell over. Gero couldn't help but laugh. Balking at commanding authority–that was his son, alright. Though, his light mood hadn't lasted long. The beeping of loading trucks saw to that–as the crudely tied ship came into view atop the loading dock floor.
"This is… the vessel the child came in…?"
"Sure is. A little dinged up, but usable, right…?"
Usable was certainly a term. The pod resembled no conventional image of a spaceship. A sphereoid, baring a purple glass window on the front–exactly in the middle of the front door, which hung softly ajar, swaying from the sole remaining "landing ramp" support. Gero stepped forth as the pod was lowered to the cement floor, his fingers pressing into the material atop the hanging door. Soft, plush, yet durable. Padded in the manner which a stereotypical insane asylum would structure their walls. A grim idea, yet what was one supposed to think when someone out in the depths of space had chosen to hurl a homicidal were-monkey toward their world?
A moron. Or a very, very generous benefactor.
"Bring the child, and the ship, to my laboratory. We have much work to do."
Broly hadn't known what to think, when greeted by the glinting metal aimed toward his face upon stepping forth from his sleep. Curiosity suggested touch. Adrenaline, and the growling faces, loud noises–dictated fight.
Fight he did. Until the stinging dots across his arms and face stopped and the smog ceased to billow from the sticks in the men's hands. Then, the men behind them did much of the same. And when they fell, the men behind THEM repeated the process. Over, and over, and over, until the little hut amidst the grass and smell of smoke was empty and quiet.
Broly slept, for what felt like forever, until he awoke with yet another stick in his face–more loud men–and metal binding his wrists. So he pulled, and they broke, and the men broke. Why would they not stop screaming at him? Broly did not know, but they had made him sting, and that was answer enough. Of course, when he'd dived into the vines of the forest and swum across the great rivers, he found himself followed by yet more men with sticks. And large, metal boxes. Broly thought there would be food inside (it looked like one of the little things with claws he ate on the beach but bigger and grayish-green) but the only thing inside was another man with a smoking stick. Broly left him alone, because despite the man being quiet and not screaming when Broly poked him, he wouldn't speak or move when Broly shook him. Broly knew he didn't like to be woken up when he was sleeping, so he left the quiet man to sleep.
And so, the process repeated–Broly could not tell for how long. Men with smoking sticks, the sting on his flesh, the effortless continuation of existence. When Broly was thirsty, he would drink from the streams. When Broly was hungry, he would hunt. When Broly was lonely, he would run from the men with sticks that only seemed to be more mad each time he saw them.
That was, until he woke up one day–and was not on the beach, or in the forest, or in one of the huts anymore.
Blinding light (not warm like the one in the sky, but harsher), rectangular in shape, hung from the ceiling of the hut he assumed he was in. This one was colder–no soft spaces. Merely doors on a rectangle in the corner of the room, and little pits topped by… strange, curved pieces of metal. Pictures adorned the walls, different from the places he'd seen before as well. Instead of funny red shapes or pictures of people (who looked nicer than those who'd been chasing him), there were strange drawings. People with strange shapes inside them, or exposed eyes (Broly shivered a little at that), vials with pointed needles. Much like the ones atop the counter.
Broly leapt atop the counter, only for the cold to shock him back down to the floor. His legs raised above his face–different than before. White and blue they had been before, but now, they looked far more like his arms. With what looked like fingers on the end. Perhaps that's why it was so cold? Did his skin come off? Broly patted idly at his legs. It didn't hurt, and it felt fine. Perhaps this was normal.
A quiet click emanated from the other end of the room. Broly's hair rose, body hunching down–hands raised.
He was big, like some of the men before, but his hair was different. Bright and only in the middle of his head, and a funny sound was coming from his mouth as he stepped inside. Unlike the other men, he didn't carry a smoking stick–rather, a funny brown rectangle. His body lacked red armbands or long black feet–his were shorter, white and rounded, with puffy green legs and a black chest. These people were so weird. Why was his skin so different from the others?
"Hello? Kid? You okay? You don't need to be afraid. It's just me here. Can you understand me?"
Broly's tail drooped.
"He…llo."
The orange-haired man got low to the ground, placing the brown rectangle to the side, before stepping forward slowly. "Hey. Now we're getting somewhere. I'm just going to ask you a few questions. Do you think you can do that…?"
"He…llo."
His smile dropped a little. Not into anything like the men with sticks, but certainly not pleased. Broly's tail tightened around his waist–impacting something soft. His fingers danced across the cloth–his skin had been far harder before.
"Oh–sorry. When we got you under control, your armor and clothes were pretty damaged, so we replaced them with a hospital gown and pants. Hope that's not too displeasing."
"Clothes…?"
"Yeah, clothes. Like…" His fingers pinched atop his green puffy leg skin, pulling up lightly. "Like my pants, or my shirt."
Broly's brows narrowed. "Not skin."
"Hm. Subject… lacks understanding of basic concepts…" His fingers rose to his chin again, one hand returning to the rectangle, picking up something–it looked small–scratching on the rectangle, before placing it down once more.
"Clothes. Not skin." Broly rose, eyes still boring into the man across the room.
Gevo felt… watched. Which was true, the child had kept his gaze centered entirely on him, but it was more like… a prey animal waiting for the predator to strike. He wouldn't get much from the boy like this. Perhaps with motivation, then. Gevo reached for his walkie, bringing it to his face before clicking quietly on the button.
Broly watched as the orange-haired man mumbled into the rectangle, before placing it on the ground once more.
"I put in an order for some food. That sound good?" Broly sat once more, legs crossing, hands placed firmly on his knees.
"Looks like it does. Sorry for the scare when I came in." Gevo rose, placing the clipboard and pencil atop the counter, turning to face the boy, before returning his gaze to the counter. Footprints, uneasy ones, marked the countertop next to the sampling syringes. A curious one, too–he was intelligent.
"Nh." Broly nodded, head tilting–akin to a bird–as he intently observed the large man.
Minutes passed in silence, as the large man stared at the countertop–unmoving. Had he thought he was being stealthy? Broly had dealt with the pursuit of those in the bushes, the quiet, whom he could smell. The orange haired man would not catch him off guard. Rather than attack, he instead turned to the door, opening it a crack, before closing it–and drawing back inside with another rectangle–
Gevo barely had time to react as the boy crossed the 20x30 foot space in less than (according to the playback footage) three seconds, snatching the meal from his hands before bounding atop the countertop, hunching over, and practically shoveling the food into his mouth. After (once again checking the playback footage) under forty seconds, the child had wolfed down the entirety of it.
"You. Feeling better there?"
The child turned to face him.
"More."