Chapter 18: Scrap Metal
The single, piercing tone of the flatline alarm was a needle driven directly into the brain. It wasn't a sound; it was a physical presence in the medical bay, smothering all other sensation, vibrating in the teeth, ringing in the bones of every being present. The greenish light of the monitors now cast a sickly, funereal pallor, the flat green line on the central screen a verdict of absolute finality.
The Frieza Force medics were not warriors. They were technicians, biologists, mechanics of the flesh. They understood the language of the alarm. It was the end of their work. One of them, a young recruit with slender antennae, began to weep silently, tears cutting clean lines through the grime on his cheeks. The lead medic, who had regained consciousness only to be met with this sonic hell, did not move from where he lay on the cold floor. He simply closed his eyes, accepting the inevitable failure and the punishment that might come with it.
Raditz stood as if turned to stone. The shrieking alarm seemed to come from inside his own skull. His eyes were locked on the flat line, his mind refusing to process what it meant. It was too abstract. The form in the tank still looked the same, suspended, pale, broken. But the machine declared it an empty vessel. His hands, clenched at his sides, began to tremble. A memory, unbidden and unwelcome, flashed behind his eyes: a smaller, weaker Kakarot, staring up at him with wide, trusting eyes before his pod launched for Earth. The memory was followed instantly by another: Raditz's own boot connecting with Lara's chest. The two images collided, creating a silent explosion of shame and self-loathing that made him physically sway.
Nappa's reaction was a volcano of impotent rage. A bestial roar tore from his throat, raw and guttural, drowning out the alarm for a single second. He spun and drove his fist into a nearby diagnostic console. The metal casing buckled, glass screens exploded in a shower of sparks and shards, and the machinery within emitted a dying shriek of its own. He stood there, chest heaving, his knuckles bleeding, dripping crimson onto the sparking ruin. He had wanted to hit the Ginyu Force, to hit Vegeta, to hit something that could fight back. All he had was a machine. The frustration was a poison in his veins.
And then there was Vegeta.
The Prince's fury, a white-hot inferno moments before, did not explode. It underwent a terrifying transformation. It collapsed in on itself, compressed under the weight of absolute, utter humiliation into something infinitely denser and colder. The heat vanished from his eyes, replaced by a glacial void. The tension left his shoulders. He became preternaturally still, a statue of obsidian and controlled malice. His gaze, devoid of all emotion, slid from the sparking ruin of Nappa's outburst to the flatlining monitor, and then to the tank itself. He saw not his subordinate, not a Saiyan, but a broken instrument.
When he spoke, his voice was a flat, dispassionate monotone that cut through the alarm with chilling clarity. "The equipment is beyond repair. The mission is a failure."
The words were so cold, so final, they seemed to drop the temperature in the room. He wasn't announcing a death. He was filing a report.
Nappa's heavy breathing slowed. He turned from his demolished console, looking at Vegeta. The Prince's icy calm was an anchor in the storm of his own humiliation. He grasped it desperately. "The Prince is right," he grunted, the words feeling like gravel in his mouth. He needed to agree, to align himself with this cold logic, to escape the feeling of being a useless, roaring animal. "The little fool brought this on himself. His insubordination… his weakness… he signed his own death warrant. We have our own orders. Lord Frieza will not tolerate further delays." He was convincing himself as much as anyone else.
Raditz flinched. The cold finality of it was a physical blow. "But…" he rasped, the word barely a whisper. He tore his eyes from the monitor, looking frantically between the tank and the cowering medics. "The tank… if we just… you!" he barked, pointing a shaking finger at the lead medic who was still on the floor. "Can you fix it? The sensor? Can you bypass it?"
The medic flinched as if struck, scrambling to his knees. "M-my lord! Without the primary neural array… the system is blind! The tank will maintain basic cellular function, but the higher processes… the synaptic pathways… they are not being mapped or rebuilt! It's… it's just preserving the tissue! The mind is gone! He is… vegetative. At best. A body without a pilot."
Vegeta's head turned slowly, his dead eyes settling on Raditz. The look was more terrifying than any scream. It was the absolute absence of hope. "There. You have your answer. He is already dead. What remains is an empty shell. A monument to his own weakness and insubordination." He turned on his heel, his cape swirling around him with a final, dismissive snap. "We are leaving. Now."
He began to walk away, his boots clicking a steady, funereal rhythm on the deck plates. As he passed the regeneration tank, he did not stop. He did not even glance at the form within. But he spoke one last time, his voice low enough that only his two remaining elites could hear, the words a chilling promise and a threat.
"This is what happens to tools that break. They are discarded."
The sentence hung in the air, heavier than the alarm. It was a law of nature. It was their fate, should they fail.
The walk back through the grimy, dripping corridors of the outpost was a march of the damned. The few personnel they encountered didn't just press themselves against the walls; they turned and fled, vanishing into side passages and hatches. The news had spread. The Saiyans were cursed. They carried the stench of failure and the attention of the Ginyu Force. They were pariahs.
Raditz walked behind Vegeta and Nappa, his head bowed. His long hair obscured his face. His mind was a war zone. The image of Kakarot in the tank. The Prince's absolute coldness. The Ginyu Force's mocking laughter. The memory of his brother as a child. Each step toward the hangar bay felt like a betrayal, a coward's retreat. He paused at the massive, scarred hatch leading to the bay, his hand resting on the cold metal. He looked back down the empty, dimly lit corridor that led back to the medical wing. A weak, stupid, emotional pull tugged at him. A feeling he hadn't known he still possessed.
A sound behind him made him jump. Nappa stood at the ramp of his own pod, glaring back at him, his face a thundercloud of impatience. "Move it, Raditz! Or are you waiting for a written invitation to the next mission?!"
Through the viewport of Vegeta's pod, Raditz could see the Prince already seated, his profile a mask of stone, staring straight ahead, waiting for launch. He was already gone from this place.
The choice was no choice at all. To stay was to be alone. To be marked. To become the next broken tool. The fear of that isolation, of that fate, was a cold fist around his heart, crushing the feeble pull of brotherhood into dust. He lowered his head in a gesture of utter defeat, his shoulders slumping. Without another look back, he climbed the ramp into his pod. The hatch sealed behind him with a final, hissing sigh.
In the medical bay, the lead medic finally pushed himself to his feet. The Saiyans were gone. The silence they left behind was somehow more oppressive than the alarm. He walked on shaky legs to the main console and manually silenced the last of the warning tones. The only sound now was the low, steady hum of the regeneration tank, performing its useless, eternal task.
He looked at the form floating within. The face was peaceful, blank. It was just a thing now. A problem.
A crackle came over the comm unit on the wall. The voice of the outpost's commander, reedy and nervous, filled the room. "Medbay. Report."
The medic cleared his throat. "The… the subject is non-viable, sir. Catastrophic neural collapse. The systems here are insufficient. The Saiyans have departed."
A long pause. Then, the voice returned, laced with relief and a desire to be rid of the entire affair. "Understood. Jettison the unit. We are not a long-term storage facility for defective merchandise. Clear the bay for its next use. Immediately."
The comm went dead.
The medic nodded to himself. It was the only logical order. He moved to a separate panel, his movements now efficient, devoid of emotion. This was a procedure. He typed in a command code. With a heavy mechanical groan, large, piston-driven arms descended from the ceiling above the regeneration tank. They clamped onto the sides of the cylinder with a sound of finality. The hoses and lines connected to it automatically detached and retracted into the wall with soft, pneumatic sighs.
The arms lifted the tank, fluid and occupant sloshing within, and carried it smoothly across the bay toward a large, circular hatch set into the far wall, a waste jettison chute. A red light above the hatch began to rotate, casting bloody circles on the metal. The hatch slid open with a grinding rumble, revealing the impenetrable blackness of space beyond, dotted with indifferent stars.
There was no ceremony. No moment of reflection. The arms extended, pushed the entire tank into the void, and retracted.
The hatch slid shut.
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