Chapter Text
“Thanks for helping me, sweetheart!” Panchy told her daughter as she took the casserole dish from her and set it next to the loaf of sourdough bread on the table. “You can go on home and eat with your father. Don’t wait for me, I’m going to wait until she’s done nursing, then I’ll hold the baby a while so she can have a good meal.”
From the rocker in the bedroom, the recently widowed and brand-new mother called out her appreciation too, “Thanks, Bulma!”
“No problem!” Bulma hollered before talking quietly to her mom, “I’m meeting Yamcha first, then I’ll head home.”
“Be back home before dark,” Panchy reminded her. Bulma practically skipped out the door, not interested in the baby like her mother was. Caring for infants and children was not her forte. Ever since her older sister disappeared, Bulma had been raised as an only child, and she tended to feel more comfortable around adults than younger kids.
The dilapidated buildings crowded the sloped sidewalks Bulma had to trek. Every once in a while, a home or a store would have lights on inside, but most of the structures were so damaged they were unusable except for vagrants and animals. The homes were in better condition at the top of the hill, where the Briefs were relocated after the war with Frieza.
Bulma pulled her hand out of the pocket of her hooded orange jacket as she waved at her friend, who leaned against the faded blue siding of an old duplex where they had agreed to meet. Yamcha waved back with his free hand, his other holding a wax paper wrapped good the size of a shoe.
“Risky behavior,” Bulma pointed to the treat, “It’s almost dark. You might as well hold a sign that says, ‘MUG ME’ with such a luxury item out in the open.”
She was only half kidding. However, if anyone was familiar with the dark side of life on the streets of their district it was Yamcha. After all, she met him last year when he was mugging her. He was surprised back then to find that the daughter of Dr. Briefs wasn’t carrying much to be desired. Given that Yamcha was already on the wrong side of the law, she had roped him into being a delivery boy for her family’s side business in black-market tech. At least Yamcha wasn’t attacking innocents anymore. They had been friends ever since.
“It’s your favorite,” Yamcha held out the item to her, “A Dutch crunch sandwich.”
“From Roxie?” Bulma unwrapped it, keeping the wax paper on the lower half to protect her fingers from the sauce.
“Yeah.”
“I haven’t had one in years!” She took a bite of the thick sandwich.
“Because on Reaping Day, she runs out too quick. I did her a favor, so she used the supplies that just arrived to make me this year’s first Dutch crunch sandwich.”
“Why is it so big? It’s twice the normal size!”
“Normally she cuts them in half to sell. She gave me a whole one.”
“I can’t eat all of this,” Bulma took another bite, and handed the sandwich to him, telling him with her mouth full, “You’ll have to help me.”
“That was the idea,” he smirked, taking it off her hands and taking a large bite for himself.
“What kind of meat is it this time?” Bulma asked once she swallowed.
“I didn’t ask,” Yamcha mumbled over the food in his mouth.
“Probably best not to,” Bulma shrugged, and took back the sandwich so she could indulge herself again. Whatever the grayish meat was, it was well seasoned. The onions and creamy, peppery sauce with it reminded her of the last time she had eaten at Roxie’s, probably four years ago: it was Reaping Day, and the screen at the restaurant was playing District 2’s reaping recap. A Saiyan kid named Vegeta had his name announced as tribute. Someone had volunteered to take his place, an older Saiyan teen named something like Radish.
Vegeta had his name announced on Reaping Day every year since.
“You think Vegeta will finally get stuck as District 2’s tribute?” Bulma asked after she downed her mouthful.
“What made you think of that?” Yamcha took his turn with the sandwich.
“I dunno. Frieza has obviously been gunning for him for years.”
“Obviously,” Yamcha agreed with a muffled voice and swallowed, “I think the whole reason the Capital changed the tribute age cap this year from 18 to 19 is because Vegeta was going to age out. I don’t know how so many people think the tributes are randomly chosen.” He handed the sandwich back to her.
“Maybe some of them are. The fact that the Saiyans are the only race considered to be citizens of District 2 stacks the deck against them anyway, but Vegeta’s had his name drawn four years in a row. Even among the small pool of young Saiyans left, the odds of that happening are ridiculous.” Bulma took a bite.
“He has to have run out of kids to volunteer for him.”
Bulma chewed in thoughtfulness, handing the sandwich back to Yamcha.
“Why would the Saiyans volunteer for him?” she asked once her throat was clear, “Are they loyal to him?”
Yamcha shrugged as he ate and handed the food to his friend. “I think Saiyans are all battle hungry animals. They volunteer because they wanna fight.”
“That can’t be true. Last year’s District 2 tribute…” Bulma paused, remembering the tiny little thing that volunteered to take Vegeta’s place. Bulma couldn’t believe the kid was actually fourteen years old at the time, “…he died so quickly. He never had a chance. I heard he was Vegeta’s little brother.”
“I don’t think they have brothers the way we think of them. Aren’t they built with bioprinters in pods?”
“That’s not true.”
“I think it is!”
“I heard they’re going to die out because the females went extinct. That means they aren’t being ‘bioprinted’.”
“Eat your share or it’s mine!” he gestured to the sandwich. Bulma frowned and greedily chomped off a large bite. Yamcha laughed, “That’s going to take a while to get down.”
He motioned for her to start walking back home. The sun was setting, and he wanted to make sure she got home safe.
She handed the remaining portion back to him as she began the remaining trip uphill on the broken sidewalk. “The rest is yours.”
“Are you sure?” Yamcha held it out to her, “You don’t want one more bite?”
“You managed to get it, so I think you deserve it. Besides, my family’s never short on food.”
“I’m not either,” Yamcha shrugged as he began to devour the rest. Her family paid him well despite him being a school dropout.
“I really enjoyed it!” Bulma leaned toward him and smiled. “You know how good of a sourdough my mom makes, but it gets tiring to have that for nearly every meal. Dutch crunch bread is such a treat.”
Yamcha grinned. When he was orphaned in the war against Frieza, he went hungry far too many times to ever complain about food. Bulma was lucky to have been well provided for even when her family lost its status as one of the richest on the planet.
“I feel weird though, eating it before the Reaping,” she admitted. This particular sandwich was only served on Reaping Day as a festive meal for a reason. The tributes were to be collected tonight. Everyone waking up in their homes tomorrow morning without a kid missing had cause for celebration.
“At least you got one!” Yamcha cheerily answered as he crumpled the now empty wax paper and tossed it over his shoulder. Bulma scowled at the littering, having been taught by her parents not to disrespect the environment in this way, but the trash bounced and rolled down the steep incline out of her reach before she thought to complain. Yamcha had practically raised himself, so she kept that in mind instead of scolding him.
They passed the Post Office, with its Capital propaganda. On the west wall a poster read, “NO FRIEZA, NO PEACE!” On the door was a flyer that was titled, “Looking for Purpose? Join the Frieza Force! Be a Trooper!”
A screen inside the barred windows showed two Capital News anchors discussing the upcoming Games and what changes were going to be implemented.
“This year along with the change in age range for the tributes, it’s also been announced that there could be two winners,” Anchor 1 told his costar.
“That’s right. For the first time, two winners will be allowed if they are allies,” Anchor 2 nodded.
“Couldn’t the last two standing simply decide to shake hands and call themselves allies?” Anchor 1 asked, clearly knowing the answer already.
“I’ve been told the alliances will be pre-determined. If your ally dies, you can win alone, but not with a partner.”
Bulma and Yamcha ignored the chatter, and walked past a poster on the window that read:
Anyone interested in volunteering as tribute should report on the field at the old baseball stadium at 8:00 AM on Reaping Day. Must be 12 to 19 years old.
“Do you think anyone will volunteer this year?” Bulma pointed at the poster, which had been hanging on the Post Office window for the last month.
“Sure.”
“I mean in our district.”
“Psh. No.” Yamcha scoffed. “We’re full of eggheads here. Frieza dumped the world’s brightest in this region, not the bravest.”
“Anyone can be brave if they had to be,” Bulma pursed her lips in thought.
Yamcha studied her. Some of her blue hair had fallen out of her ponytail so he reached to move it behind her ear. She flinched away from him at first but then realized what he was doing.
“Oh. Thank you.” She blushed a little, thankful for cover of darkness.
“Do you have plans for tomorrow?” Yamcha asked nervously.
“Everyone has plans tomorrow.” Watching the Reaping was required by law. It was broadcast on every screen. The Games would take over the media for two to three weeks.
“Do you have to stay with your parents though?”
“You have a better idea?”
“I found a spot where it’s quiet. The screen is in the kitchen, but if you close the door when the screen turns itself on, it’s barely noticeable. No needles, no rats, no broken glass and no mold, at least that I can smell. It even has running water.”
“Sounds like it was recently abandoned.”
“It will be. Just for us. A friend is lending it to me for the day because he’s spending Reaping Day at his cousin’s.”
“You’re borrowing a room? For us?” Bulma’s blush reappeared, a deeper red this time. The implication was clear to her. But Yamcha wasn’t her boyfriend. At least not that they had discussed.
“You can bring snacks and so can I! Bring your chessboard. I’ll bring cards and dice. There’s a board game I found that I want to try. We’ll spend the afternoon having fun.”
This sounded more wholesome than she had imagined.
“Besides, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” Yamcha sounded nervous again, which made Bulma nervous.
“You wanna talk tomorrow? Why not tonight?”
“Um…” Yamcha pointed ahead. They had already made it back and her home’s porchlight was on. Her father would want her inside as soon as possible. “We ran out of time.”
“You can’t give me a hint?” Bulma quit walking and pulled on the sleeve of his old Capsule Corp jacket, the one she had given him when she found out he didn’t have anything to keep him warm. He stopped with her, and they faced each other.
Yamcha sighed, “We’ll talk tomorrow. Meet by the duplex again at noon?”
“No, 1:30. I don’t want to miss my mom’s Reaping Day lunch.”
“But we’ll have food if we bring it.”
“True, but your offerings won’t compare to hers.”
He rolled his eyes. “I can’t argue with that.”
“Maybe you should join us for lunch.”
Yamcha considered it. “Not this time. I’ll be busy getting everything ready.”
Bulma nodded and tilted her head toward her home. “Gotta go then.”
“See you tomorrow?”
“1:30!” Bulma waved at him as he marched back down the hill. She took a few steps toward her porch, then paused and watched him disappear, wondering what he was going to tell her. Her heart pounded a little at the thought that she might know what it was, but she didn’t know if she felt that way about Yamcha. She would have to mull that idea over tonight. Again.
Strange how Bulma always talked herself out of liking him. They got along well enough, but they had always held each other at arm’s length. Being eighteen years old in this world made for such unforeseen futures. Bulma didn’t know if she would be shipped out to support tech developers in the Capital once she finished her engineering apprenticeship this year. It was rare for anyone to switch citizenship from the districts to the Capital, but if you were being recruited by Frieza’s regime, you didn’t have much choice. Her father knew people there and he had talked about using his connections so she could have a favorable placement should she be forced to move.
Yamcha was going to be stuck here in District 3. Bulma had no idea if a future with him was even possible. That was the real issue.
She shook her head to clear it as she opened the door. As soon as her foot stepped over the threshold, a hand covered her mouth and the door slammed behind her. Frieza’s troopers appeared from the kitchen and side hall, armed and ready.
“Congratulations, Bulma Briefs. You’re to receive the honor of representing District 3 in this year’s Games. Your father is ready for his final goodbye,” the short, purple-skinned trooper in front her explained.
Bulma tried to speak, but her mouth was clamped shut by an alien much stronger than a typical human. She couldn’t even see her captor as he held her jaw, but he must have had more than one set of arms because he wrestled each of her wrists to her sides and gripped her waist as well.
The purple trooper stepped forward and locked a shock collar onto her neck, the kind tributes wear as their names are announced on Reaping Day.
“This will prevent you from using any ki,” the deep voice behind her made her skin crawl.
As if. Could humans even use ki?
“We’ll set it off if you yell or scream,” the smaller soldier informed her, pointing to a remote attached to his belt, “So I suggest you keep your voice down.”
With that warning her mouth was released, and she was escorted into the kitchen where Dr. Briefs had been held as prisoner until she came home. The plate in front of him was half empty, indicating the troopers had interrupted his supper.
Dr. Briefs slowly stood from his seat, his face downcast. His eyes were red like he had cried earlier, but his cheeks were dry. The shock of the moment wore off when she saw her father like this. Her chin began trembling.
“Bulma,” her father did his best to sound reassuring, “Remember what you’ve been taught. Remember that we love you. No matter what.”
“I love you dad,” she whispered in a shaky breath as he leaned in for a hug.
He buried his face toward her ear and whispered so the others couldn’t hear, “I’m so sorry. This was my fault. I’ll fix it though. Remember, I have friends.”
Bulma’s eyes widened as he lifted his face away and held her tear-streaked cheeks in his rough hands. “We’re proud of you. Your sister would be too. Everything will be okay. Your mother and I will be okay. Even that rascal stray will be taken care of.”
He studied Bulma with eyes that meant something, something she couldn’t understand at the moment, but she knew it was important. So important it couldn’t be spoken aloud for others to hear. She tried to memorize his expression, log it away for later. “Be brave girl. You always have been anyway.”
“Let’s go, girly,” her large captor pulled her away, but Bulma instinctively resisted.
“Wait my mom! She’s on the way here! We just need to wait a few minutes!”
“Time’s up.”
“Hold on!” Dr. Briefs reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small flashlight, the kind with a key ring on the end. “She gets to take a token from her District, right? This will do. Our district does love our electronics.”
“Hardly a shining example of earth’s technology,” the purple trooper snickered as Dr. Briefs handed it to the larger alien behind Bulma for inspection. After clicking the light on and off, the stronger trooper stuffed it in Bulma’s jacket pocket.
“Lights out,” the purple skinned trooper touched the remote on his belt, setting off the collar on Bulma’s neck. Her body stiffened and went unconscious.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Good morning,” a dull voice greeted her.
Bulma jolted on the cot she was sleeping on, “Where am I?” It felt like she was moving. Sinking and swaying.
“On a Capital hovercraft,” the voice belonged to a bored looking Frieza Trooper. This one was a human man. A traitor. There were more and more of them every year. “We’re about to land and announce your name as tribute.”
“It’s already tomorrow?”
“It’s Reaping Day.”
The movement stopped as the plane set down on the baseball field. Bulma was led down the hovercraft’s ramp by the trooper while a propaganda film finished playing on the huge screen past the outfield. Dramatic reenacted fight sequences between armed humans and Frieza Force troopers were followed by nuclear mushroom clouds. An elderly male voice narrated alongside the visual backdrop:
“…and despite the tremendous damage caused by humanity’s worst weapons, our Lord Frieza has salvaged earth and united the remnants of species across the galaxy that fled here for their survival.” Images of various aliens smiling, working, and caring for their families took over the screen.
“In accordance with the treaty which established the districts, production quotas must be met for the good of the empire.” This part was emphasized with shots of factories, cattle, molten gold, fields of grain, bushels of apples, and nets full of fish.
“As punishment for their rebellion, and as a reminder of the futility of war, every year the various Districts of Earth must offer in tribute one young person to fight to the death in a pageant of honor, courage and sacrifice.” Famous action scenes of previous games played in slow-motion: an air battle, a ki blast, a rampaging Oozaru, a stabbing.
“The victor, bathed in riches, will serve as a reminder of Frieza’s generosity.” A large, muscular silhouette of a symbolic winner, their hand raised in triumph, punctuated the statement.
There were a few final blurbs about remembering the past and safeguarding the future, followed by a long orchestral anthem celebrating the Cold Empire. Bulma ignored the noise as she walked to the stage in the infield. The stands surrounding her were already filled with people, both human and alien, who were curious enough to show up for the announcement. No one was on the field waiting to volunteer. There were only troopers of numerous alien races along the edges and a camera crew near the pitcher’s mound.
The only person who could volunteer to take her place would be another eligible kid, someone between the ages of twelve and nineteen. Yamcha would fit the bill, being eighteen himself. But even if he had the guts to volunteer for her, he had no way of knowing ahead of time that she was here. Cellphones were a luxury that nearly went extinct after the war. Yamcha would either be sleeping in or already at his friend’s place trying to prepare for the fun afternoon he had planned.
She scanned the stadium for her parents, wondering if they were here watching. A lot of hands were waving around, some at her, but most people were waving down others who were coming in late and looking for a seat. There wasn’t a reserved section for the tribute’s family.
Since her eyes were peeled searching the crowd, she tripped when she made it to the stage steps. The trooper snatched her by the arm to keep her from falling, and while she should have been grateful, she glared at him for touching her.
“Hands off,” she wrenched her arm away.
“Easy missy. I’m just trying to help.”
“Help me right into a sacrificial death. I guess chivalry isn’t dead.”
After she made her way onstage, a blonde lady in high heel white leather boots, short white skirt and matching suit jacket with extravagant shoulder pads beckoned her to come closer.
“Miss Briefs, didn’t they offer you a change of clothes?” she looked at Bulma’s jeans, orange jacket and T-shirt like they were covered in grime. Granted, it was the same outfit Bulma wore yesterday, but it didn’t appear dirty.
“No. They only woke me up a minute ago.”
The lady huffed and rolled her eyes. “My word. I’ve told them before it looks better if the tributes are dressed and ready for the Capital. Next year, I’ll make sure the mentor handles this.”
“Mentor?”
“That’s something they started this year. A mentor will help you navigate the Games and manage your sponsors. You’ll meet him later.” The lady stepped toward Bulma and ripped out her ponytail holder.
“Ouch!”
“Your hair was a mess, like you had slept this way.”
“Because I had!”
“You can redo the ponytail or leave it down,” the blonde handed Bulma the elastic band.
Bulma scowled as the blonde sauntered back to her spot in the center of the stage. The teen pulled the band around her wrist instead of redoing her hair. Since she didn’t know how much time she had, she smoothed out her aqua blue hair as quickly as possible and tried to create a part on the side. She may not look her best, but she would be dignified. That was a gift she could give to her parents. And to herself, really.
The blonde tapped the microphone to test it. It made a popping sound on the stadium’s speakers. The camera crew on the ground in front of the stage was set to record District 3’s reaping.
“We are ready to go in thirty seconds if you are,” the director gestured at the blonde.
The lady in the dress suit nodded. She checked that Bulma was on the correct mark for the camera shot and then sighed. She took a step toward the sacrificial teen and asked quietly so the mic wouldn’t pick up her voice.
“You know the drill, honey?”
“You say my name. No one volunteers. I leave on that hovercraft.”
“Yeah. That’s the gist of it.” She gave Bulma a sad look, then stepped back in front of the microphone.
“Ready to roll in 3, 2…” he held up one finger then pointed at the District 3 host.
“Good morning citizens of District 3!” the happy tone echoed on the speakers, quieting the crowd. Once the background noise stilled, the lady spoke again, “Happy Reaping Day! This year we celebrate the 10th annual Games established to honor Lord Frieza. Allow me to introduce the courageous tribute randomly selected to have the honor of representing District 3.”
The blonde made a wide sweep with her manicured fingers.
“Bulma Briefs!”
A low muttering began in pockets of the stadium and spread. Not only was Dr. Briefs well known in District 3, but his company Capsule Corp changed the course of technology worldwide. Even though all corporate assets became the property of Frieza, just like the districts and the citizens who live in them, Dr. Briefs never lost respect in the public eye.
“Now, in case you weren’t aware, volunteers were asked to arrive on the field,” she motioned toward home plate, “But if there is anyone in the stands interested in volunteering, please make your way to the front and alert the nearest trooper of your interest.”
No one moved. The audience was eerily still.
“No one cares to be the very first volunteer for District 3? Volunteering is very popular in some of the other districts. The opportunity for prestige and riches isn’t enticing?”
Not even crickets were brave enough to chirp in the silence.
“Very well, then. Bulma Briefs, we thank you for your courage in representing District 3!” the blonde turned to look at Bulma with feigned pride, “May the odds be ever in your favor!”
The Cold Empire’s anthem began playing over the speakers and the director yelled cut. The human trooper motioned for Bulma to leave the stage. Bulma thought about jumping off the back of the platform and running, but there was no point with this shock collar still on her neck and troopers lining the field.
She followed the trooper back into the hovercraft where he led her to a compartment that held swivel chairs and a screen already tuned into Capital News. A fruit basket sat on the floor under the screen, many of the offerings being items she hadn’t tasted since she was a small child.
“Sit here. The food provided is for breakfast and lunch. The trip to the Capital will take hours. The reaping recap will start in the next hour.”
Bulma listened to the anchormen discussing what mutated animals might be showcased in the games this year, beasts that people called mutts for short. Mutts played a pivotal role in the games last year, so time was filled bringing up images of past creatures. Vampiric birds, electric butterflies, and toxic hornets that chased their victims for miles.
Eventually, the anchormen switched to talking about when the alliances might be announced. As Bulma considered what she was about to watch, she poked her head out of the room. “Hey, do you have paper and pen?”
The trooper scowled at her. “I’m not supposed to give you anything you could use as a weapon.”
“I need to take notes! I won’t remember everything about the tributes if I don’t write it down!”
The trooper gave her a sympathetic expression. “Stay here.”
He left for the cockpit for a moment and returned.
“You can use this.” He handed her a pencil.
“What am I supposed to write on?”
“The pilot suggested toilet paper.”
Bulma stared at him, hoping he was kidding.
“That’s the only paper we have,” he shrugged, “You can unroll it as you write.”
Bulma groaned and trudged to hovercraft’s toilet stall.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vegeta was nudged when the recap started.
“Let’s see who you’re up against,” a deep voice interrupted his train of thought. The young prince kept his arms crossed as the anthem’s final notes filled the hovercraft’s large media compartment. The other Saiyans moved their attention from their trays of pork dumplings and ribs to the screen.
“You sure you don’t want more?” Nappa offered his tray to the prince. Vegeta grabbed a dumpling, popped one in his mouth, then took another before gesturing he was done.
“It’s time for the results of Reaping Day! Let’s check out District 1!” Anchor 1 nodded, and the scene cut from the newsroom to the stage set among the desert mountains of the district known for its precious metals and gems. A terrified girl with short white hair and bright green skin stood on stage. Her purple dress moved in the wind, and her long-lashed eyes blinked to fight the dry air.
“Hey, Broly, you were assigned to mentor District 1, right?” Raditz pointed at the screen, talking over the District 1 host, “At least she’s a looker.”
Broly sighed.
“If she survives the first five minutes, she’ll get sponsors, for sure,” Nappa commented, “Capital citizens love their pretty things.”
The screen switched back to the newsroom, where the anchors shared stats, “I’m told Cheelai of District 1 is eighteen years old.”
“She’s only a year younger than you, kid!” Nappa laughed at Broly. “Have fun with that while you can!”
Broly scowled at the bald Saiyan.
“What’s the matter, does your medication lower your libido?” Nappa teased.
Broly got up to leave, but Raditz grabbed his arm and gestured back to the chair, holding back a chuckle, “We’ll stop. You gotta stay and see the other tributes.”
“You’re lucky I take that medication, or you would’ve been dead in our last spar,” Broly narrowed his eyes at Nappa as he sat back down. Nappa chuckled and glanced at Vegeta to see if he found it funny, but the prince had ignored all their banter.
The indoor stage of District 2 appeared onscreen. Vegeta stood in his full armor and cape, a shock collar on his neck, and his face stoic as the host of District 2, General Paragus, announced his name as tribute. The camera panned out to show there were no volunteers near the stage this year.
“Make us proud,” General Paragus saluted with a fist over his heart as Vegeta walked offstage, ignoring him.
The anchors took over, determined to add more drama to the situation.
“I’m told Vegeta is the last Saiyan in the age range for the Games. So, what’s the word on District 2’s tribute next year?” Anchor 2 posed the question that audiences all over the world have been wondering.
“I’ve heard a lot of speculation,” Anchor 1 responded, “Some think District 2 will no longer have to participate.”
“That would make sense. District 2 is reserved for military training, so the only other residents are base employees and members of Frieza’s army. They haven’t been allowed to bring in families.”
“And who would want to? Raising children in the same District with Saiyans?”
“That’s risky. Not a family friendly environment, if you ask me.”
“We’ll have to wait and see what happens next year. For now, let’s see the reaping in District 3.”
Even though the blatant racism was typical for Capital News, it still left all the Saiyans on the hovercraft in a sour mood as they watched for the next victim.
“Allow me to introduce the courageous tribute randomly selected to have the honor of representing District 3,” the blond white-clad host swept her hand toward a pitiful looking girl who was so dazed Vegeta would’ve believed she had just rolled out of bed, “Bulma Briefs!”
Raditz cocked his maned head. “I’d hate to be her mentor.”
“Aren’t the District 3 humans more intelligent?” Broly searched Nappa.
“Eh. But it’s hit or miss. Depends on why they’re in that District.”
“Right, they’re not all programmers and engineers,” Raditz added.
Vegeta heard the anchors in the background while his companions spoke to each other. This blue-haired girl was eighteen and she was the daughter of Dr. Briefs, whoever that was. Apparently, the anchors were familiar with him, but Vegeta had never heard of this man. It frustrated the young warrior that they spoke of her father at all. This girl would likely end up dead in a few days, possibly at his own hands. He didn’t need to be reminded that she had a family.
Nappa recognized the tribute named Crema that volunteered for District 4. “That has to be Burter’s kid.”
“From the Ginyu Force?” Raditz clarified.
“I’m absolutely certain.”
“I thought the Ginyu Force members were Capital citizens since they supported Frieza. Why would Burter’s kid be representing a District?” Broly leaned toward Nappa in interest.
“Isn’t Ginyu going to be a mentor for District 4?” Raditz rubbed his chin.
“That’s what I’ve heard.” Nappa shrugged. “Maybe he recruited this kid himself. There’s no rule that says the Capital kids can’t volunteer.”
“We’ll see if he’s a worthy opponent,” Vegeta sneered, speaking for the first time since he had entered the hovercraft. Nappa clapped him on the back, happy to see him participating.
“That’s right. It’s only fun if we get a good fight out of it.”
As time went along on their trip to the Capital, the recaps continued on screen. District 5 was next. A waterfall was visible in the distance, set in the forested mountains. Chiaotzu, a short pale kid with red circles on his cheeks, stood on the outdoor stage.
As soon as the kid was introduced, a bald teen, who called himself Tien Shinhan, approached the stage and volunteered to replace him as tribute. Once the host confirmed the volunteer was eighteen years old and eligible, the little boy was released. The camera zoomed in on Tien and Chiaotzu hugging. A trooper removed the boy’s shock collar, adjusted it to make it larger, then attached it to Tien’s neck.
“Does that volunteer have three eyes?” Broly asked, “Is he human?”
Nappa raised his eyebrows, “I don’t think so. Humans only have two eyes.”
“But he IS earthling, right?” Vegeta studied Nappa from under his furrowed brow.
“Probably. I don’t recognize that race from any other planet.”
A kid named Hamusta was chosen from District 6.
“He’ll be hard to beat,” Nappa warned Vegeta. “The people from Yardrat can teleport.”
“I’m aware, Nappa,” Vegeta rolled his eyes.
District 7’s stage had a beautiful backdrop of evergreen trees. The spring breeze blew around the braid and feather that adorned the head of the small kid onstage. The fringed leather pants seemed warm enough but he wore no shirt, only a vest. Despite having his chest exposed he didn’t appear bothered by the coolness of the morning. He seemed determined to be brave.
The host, a bearded lumberjack of a man in a plaid shirt and denim overalls, introduced the child as Upa, but his attention was startled by something off camera. The shot panned to the patch of dirt and grass in front of the stage. A little boy with spiky hair and a tail stood there alone in the space reserved for volunteers. His indigo sleeveless shirt revealed muscled little arms.
“I said I’ll do it!” the spiky haired kid raised his hand and approached the stage.
“Is that…?” Raditz’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head.
“That’s a son of Bardock if I ever saw one.” Nappa leaned back in his chair and crossed his massive arms over his armored chest. “He looks more like your father than you do, Raditz!”
“What is Kakarot doing in District 7?!” Raditz gestured emphatically at the screen.
“Your father must have sent him to earth all those years ago. He had no idea we would all end up stuck here,” Vegeta shook his head in disgust, “It’s a shame I’ll probably have to kill him.”
Raditz stared with wide eyes at Vegeta, trying to tame the horror he felt.
“Maybe he’ll be your ally. Then you could both win, right?” Broly reminded Vegeta of the special rules for this year.
“We all know Frieza would never leave the alliances to chance,” Vegeta’s tone was authoritative and final.
They all turned their attention back to the screen.
“Hello, there, young man, what’s your name?” the lumberjack guy pulled the mic out of the stand and held it down to the little Saiyan who still stood on the ground.
“I’m Goku.”
“Goku?” Raditz flinched away from the screen.
Vegeta laughed, “He doesn’t even remember his own name!”
Raditz growled in irritation.
“Are you sure you’re old enough to volunteer?” the District 7 host asked, “You have to be at least twelve years old.”
“I’m fourteen. Wait, it’s spring now…” he counted on his little fingers, then ran out of fingers. “What comes after fourteen?”
“Fifteen?”
“Yeah!” Kakarot pointed at the host, “That’s it! I’m fifteen! I heard there’s a big tournament or something, and I wanna fight!”
“Are you a Saiyan?” the host tilted his head as he stared at the furry brown tail.
“What’s a Saiyan?”
“Never mind. Come on up here. Upa?” the lumberjack motioned toward Kakarot, “It looks like this guy is taking your place! The first ever to volunteer for District 7!”
Upa’s chin trembled and he teared up as a trooper came to remove his collar. Kakarot jumped onstage easily and approached the other boy.
“Hi! I’m Son Goku!” he held out a little hand. Upa rushed toward Kakarot and pulled him into a tight hug, making the Saiyan giggle.
“Why is he laughing?” Broly was disturbed.
“Kakarot!” Raditz hissed. “Saiyans don’t hug!”
“Something seems wrong with him,” Nappa muttered.
Vegeta scowled. “Is he even aware this is a fight to the death?”
Once Upa was gone, two troopers approached Kakarot. One clicked a collar on his neck and the other slipped a red stick out of a cylindrical case on the boy’s back.
“Hey! I want my power pole back!” As soon as Kakarot reached for it, he was electrocuted by his collar and the screen cut to the Capital Newsroom.
“Ouch!” Anchor 1 joked, “Leave it to a Saiyan to try to attack a trooper on Reaping Day!”
“What’s a Saiyan even doing in District 7? I thought they were all confined to District 2?” Anchor 2’s shock was evident.
“I have no idea, but how surprising is it that this little monkey came out of the woodworks and volunteered?!”
“Now that I think about it, it’s not surprising at all!”
Both news anchors laughed like that it was best joke they had ever heard.
Vegeta growled loudly and glared at Raditz. “Your brother is a mockery of our race.”
Raditz glanced sullenly at Vegeta, but didn’t argue.
The next two tributes from Districts 8 and 9 were human males. The short-statured bald kid from 8 had six markings on his forehead. It surprised the Saiyans to hear he was sixteen years old, since humans were typically taller at that age. The tubby sixteen-year-old from District 9, named Yajirobe, wore an empty sword sheath, since his weapon was taken from him.
“You’re mentoring District 10, right Raditz? The district known for their livestock?” Broly pointed at the screen, where the host stood alone waiting for the tribute to appear.
“Let’s hope I get a beefy kid, then,” Raditz chuckled.
The tribute that marched onstage was not beefy at all. The red pants and sleeveless royal blue qipao she wore hung off of her slender frame. Most of her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail but strips of straight hair hung at her temples on either side of her bangs. Her gaze was steady and even, determined, while she held tight fists at her sides.
“Chi-Chi!” a deep voice rang out from the crowd. The camera panned to the audience, who was crowded behind a temporary fence, raising fists and yelling. A huge man wearing a horned hat had climbed over the barrier and was being tackled by troopers.
“Not my daughter! Nooo!!”
The shot moved to the District 10 host who seemed a bit terrified at the situation. Someone must have indicated the need to hurry because he quickly rushed through the tribute announcement as the angry crowd threatened to drown him out.
“The district 10 tribute is Chi-Chi, daughter of the Ox-King, our beloved district leader.”
Unsurprisingly, the scene cut back to the newsroom, where the anchors mentioned that Chi-Chi was only fourteen years old.
“Good luck with that one,” Nappa didn’t have to look at Raditz to know he was disappointed. At the very least, Raditz wanted to mentor a fighter, someone who could live past the first day.
“She looks sturdy though,” Broly tried to be positive, “You can see her arms are toned. She probably works hard.”
Vegeta yawned. Six more districts to go. So far there were three female tributes. While all of them would make problematic allies, the worst-case scenario would be pairing up with the weakest one, the human with blue hair from District 3.