Chapter Text
The throne room reeked of desperation and barely contained rage.
King Vegeta stood at the foot of his own throne, fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white beneath his gloves. The irony wasn't lost on him—forced to stand like a common soldier while aliens sat where his ancestors had ruled for centuries. His dark eyes burned as they fixed on the massive figure lounging in his seat, tail swishing with lazy amusement.
King Cold was everything the stories had promised and worse. Even sitting, he towered over everyone in the room, his pale form radiating the kind of power that made the air itself feel heavy. Those ruby-red eyes seemed to see right through Vegeta's carefully constructed mask of defiance, reading every thought, every plan, every desperate hope for rebellion that flickered in the Saiyan king's mind.
"You seem displeased, Your Majesty," Cold drawled, his voice carrying that particular brand of politeness that was somehow more threatening than any roar. "Surely you understand the... practicalities of our arrangement."
Arrangement. As if there had been any choice in the matter. As if the smoldering ruins of three Saiyan outposts hadn't made the consequences of refusal crystal clear.
"I understand perfectly," King Vegeta replied, proud that his voice came out steady despite the fury threatening to choke him. "My warriors serve the Cold Empire. We conquer planets in your name, expand your territory, fill your coffers with the spoils of war."
"Precisely." Cold leaned forward slightly, and King Vegeta fought every instinct screaming at him to take a step back. "Your Saiyans are remarkable fighters. Brutal, efficient, born for battle. It would be such a waste to see that potential... extinguished."
The threat hung in the air like smoke from a dying fire. Around the throne room, Vegeta's advisors and generals stood rigid, their own humiliation written in the tense lines of their shoulders. They were proud warriors reduced to little more than glorified mercenaries, and they all knew it.
A smaller figure shifted in the shadows beside Cold's throne, drawing King Vegeta's attention. Frieza—Cold's son and heir to this expanding nightmare. The stories painted him as his father's protégé, already showing signs of the calculated cruelty that had built their empire. But seeing him now, Vegeta was struck by how young he looked. Probably not much older than Vegeta's own son would be, if the queen's pregnancy went smoothly.
The thought of his unborn child sent a fresh wave of anger through him. What kind of world was he bringing an heir into? What kind of legacy was this?
"There is, of course, the matter of tribute," Cold continued, apparently oblivious to Vegeta's internal struggle. Or maybe he just didn't care. "A percentage of all spoils, naturally. And periodic... recruitment of your finest warriors for more specialized assignments."
"Recruitment." Vegeta tasted bile. "You mean conscription."
"Such an ugly word." Cold's smile was all teeth. "I prefer to think of it as expanding their horizons. Your people are warriors—surely they crave worthy opponents, greater challenges?"
What they craved was freedom. What they deserved was the right to fight their own battles, claim their own victories, die their own deaths without some alien overlord pulling the strings. But Vegeta bit back those words. He'd seen what happened to kings who spoke too freely around Cold.
"My father is most generous," Frieza spoke for the first time, his voice carrying an odd mix of childish petulance and cold calculation. "Perhaps the monkey king fails to appreciate the opportunity we're offering."
Monkey. The slur hit like a physical blow, but Vegeta forced his expression to remain neutral. Around the room, he could feel his people's rage spike, their power levels fluctuating with barely controlled emotion. One wrong move now and Cold would have all the excuse he needed to demonstrate why crossing the Cold Empire was a mistake civilizations rarely lived to repeat.
"I appreciate it completely," Vegeta said through gritted teeth. "Planet Vegeta accepts your... generous offer of partnership."
"Excellent." Cold rose from the throne with fluid grace, his massive form casting everything into shadow. "I do so enjoy working with reasonable beings. Frieza, make note of this moment. Diplomacy, my boy, often achieves what brute force cannot."
Frieza's dark eyes glittered with something that might have been amusement. "Of course, father. Though I suspect the monkeys' reasonableness has less to do with diplomacy and more to do with self-preservation."
The kid was sharp, Vegeta had to give him that. And probably right. But self-preservation had kept the Saiyan race alive this long—it would have to be enough to see them through this new hell as well.
As Cold swept toward the throne room's massive doors, his entourage falling into step behind him, he paused just long enough to deliver one final blow. "Oh, and Your Majesty? I trust you'll ensure your people understand the terms of our arrangement. Compliance brings prosperity. Defiance..." He let the word hang in the air like a blade. "Well. I'm sure your imagination can fill in those details."
The throne room fell silent except for the echo of retreating footsteps. When the great doors finally sealed shut, the weight of what had just happened seemed to crush down on everyone present.
"My lord," General Nappa rumbled, his voice barely contained violence. "Give the word. We can still—"
"We can still nothing," King Vegeta snapped, whirling on his most trusted advisor. "You saw what they did to the outer colonies. You felt that power level. One ship, Nappa. One ship reduced three military installations to ash."
"Then what?" The question came from one of his younger generals, a fierce woman named Leeka whose scarred face spoke to countless battles won. "We just bow and scrape like conquered dogs?"
"We survive." The words felt like acid on his tongue. "We play their game, follow their rules, and we survive. And while we're surviving, we get stronger. We learn their weaknesses. We wait for our chance."
It sounded good. Noble, even. The patient strategy of a wise king thinking beyond the moment. But deep down, in a place Vegeta tried not to acknowledge, he wondered if that chance would ever come. If his people would remember what freedom felt like by the time they were strong enough to reclaim it.
The queen's labor pains had started three days ago, and now, as King Vegeta stood at his window overlooking the capital city, he wondered what kind of future his child would inherit. Would his son grow up free, or would he know only the yoke of servitude? Would he be strong enough to succeed where his father had failed?
Below, Saiyan warriors were already preparing for their first mission under Cold's banner. Soon they would scatter across the galaxy, conquering worlds for an empire that saw them as little more than attack dogs. The proud Saiyan elite, reduced to cosmic raiders in service of alien masters.
But they would endure. They had to.
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Four Days Later
The military briefing room buzzed with tension thick enough to cut with a blade. King Vegeta sat at the head of the long metal table, his newborn son's cries still echoing in his memory from the royal wing. Prince Vegeta had arrived screaming into the world just as his kingdom fell under foreign rule—fitting, in a way that made the king's jaw clench.
"The Cold Empire has provided us with our first assignment," he announced, his voice cutting through the murmur of assembled warriors. "Twelve planets in the Outer Rim. Rich in resources, lightly defended. They want them conquered, stripped, and ready for sale within six months."
General Nappa shifted in his seat, the massive Saiyan's scarred face twisting with barely concealed disgust. "Sale, my lord?"
"Everything has a price now, Nappa. Planets, people, pride." Vegeta's fingers drummed against the table's surface. "Cold's empire runs on profit, and we're the collection agency."
A snort from the back of the room made everyone turn. Bardock sat slouched in his chair, arms crossed, that perpetual scowl on his face somehow even deeper than usual.
"Something amusing, Bardock?" King Vegeta's voice could have frozen lava.
"Just thinking about how far we've come, Your Majesty." Bardock's tone dripped with insolence that would have gotten any other warrior executed on the spot. "From proud conquerors to glorified repo men. Real inspiring stuff."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Every warrior present knew they were witnessing something that could end very badly for the third-class upstart. But Bardock had always been like this—too stubborn to know when to shut his mouth, too useful to dispose of easily.
"Your opinion is noted," King Vegeta said with deadly calm. "Now, as I was saying—"
"Are we gonna pretend this isn't exactly what they want?" Bardock cut him off, leaning forward in his chair. "Break us down, make us their attack dogs, get us so used to following orders that we forget what it feels like to make our own choices?"
"Enough." The word cracked like a whip, backed by enough royal authority to make several of the younger warriors flinch. But Bardock just stared back, unmoved.
"Is it enough, though? Because last I checked, Saiyans didn't bow to anyone. We took what we wanted, when we wanted it. Now we're taking orders from some ice-cold freak who sits in our king's chair like he owns the place."
Nappa started to rise, murder in his eyes, but Vegeta held up a hand. The king studied Bardock for a long moment, seeing something in those defiant dark eyes that reminded him uncomfortably of his own thoughts during Cold's visit.
"You seem to have forgotten your place, third-class."
"Maybe. Or maybe everyone else has forgotten theirs." Bardock stood slowly, his power level spiking just enough to get everyone's attention. "We're Saiyans, not lapdogs. Some of us remember what that used to mean."
The silence stretched until it became painful. King Vegeta could order Bardock's execution right here, right now. It would be justified—insubordination of this magnitude demanded blood. But the truth was, he needed warriors like Bardock. Needed their strength, their ruthlessness, their complete inability to back down from a fight.
Even if they were too stupid to understand the larger game being played.
"Your passion is noted, Bardock. And your services are required." King Vegeta's smile was all teeth. "Congratulations. You'll be leading Team Alpha on the Kanassa raid. Consider it a reward for your... forthright opinions."
Bardock's eyes narrowed. Kanassa was supposed to be the hardest target on the list—a world of psychic warriors who could see attacks coming before they were thrown. It was a suicide mission dressed up as an honor.
"Generous of you, Your Majesty."
"I'm known for my generosity." King Vegeta turned to address the room. "Team assignments will be distributed within the hour. You leave at dawn. And remember—we represent the Cold Empire now. Failure reflects poorly on all of us."
As the meeting broke up, warriors filing out in small groups, Bardock lingered. When the room was nearly empty, he approached the king's chair with that same casual disrespect that had been getting him in trouble since childhood.
"You know this is wrong," he said quietly.
"What I know," King Vegeta replied without looking up from his datapad, "is that my people are alive. My son will grow up breathing instead of buried under the rubble of our cities. That's worth a little bent pride."
"Is it worth forgetting who we are?"
Now Vegeta did look up, and for just a moment, Bardock saw something raw and desperate in the king's eyes. Something that looked almost like agreement.
"Get out of my sight before I remember that insubordination is still a capital offense."
Bardock nodded slowly and turned to leave. At the doorway, he paused.
"For what it's worth, Your Majesty... I hope your son grows up stronger than both of us."
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The cramped house in Sector 7 had never felt more like home than it did when Bardock walked through the door that night. The familiar scent of Gine's cooking—some kind of stew that actually smelled edible, a miracle given their rations—wrapped around him like a warm embrace after the cold sterility of the royal palace.
"Bardock!" Gine's voice carried that particular brand of joy that had somehow survived years of war, poverty, and uncertainty. She appeared in the doorway to their tiny kitchen, still wearing her food service uniform from the distribution center, her gentle features lighting up at the sight of him. "Perfect timing. I was just checking on Kakarot—he's looking so healthy!"
The knot of tension that had been sitting in Bardock's chest since the meeting began to loosen.
"How's the little brat doing?" he asked, letting Gine grab his hand and practically drag him toward the back room where their younger son's incubation pod hummed quietly.
"See for yourself." She bounced with excitement as she led him through their modest living space, past Raditz who was sprawled on the floor fiddling with some kind of training device. "His power level's been steady all day, and look how active he's getting!"
The incubation pod sat in the corner of what served as both nursery and storage room, its soft blue glow painting everything in an ethereal light. Inside the nutrient-rich fluid, baby Kakarot floated peacefully, occasionally moving a tiny fist or kicking his legs in what looked almost like practice combat moves.
"Would you look at that," Bardock murmured, his voice going soft in a way that would have shocked his squadmates. "Kid's already throwing punches."
"Just like his daddy," Gine cooed, pressing her face close to the pod's curved surface. "Yes you are, little one. You're going to be such a strong fighter, aren't you? Yes you are! Such a good baby, my little Kakarot!"
"Ugh, Mom, stop talking to him like he's a pet." Seven-year-old Raditz appeared behind them, his longer hair already showing the spiky wildness that ran in Bardock's family. "He can't even understand you yet. And look at him—he's probably gonna be weak his whole life, just floating there like some kind of fish."
"He can too understand me!" Gine protested, though her smile took the sting out of her words. "Babies are very smart, Raditz. Much smarter than big brothers who make fun of helpless little ones."
"He's not helpless, he's pathetic. I was way stronger when I came out of my pod." Raditz crossed his arms in a gesture that looked disturbingly familiar—Bardock had seen that same arrogant pose from half the elite warriors at today's meeting. "Bet he'll stay third-class forever, just like—" He caught himself before finishing that sentence, but the implication hung in the air.
Bardock's eye twitched. He'd had enough attitude for one day, and he sure as hell wasn't going to tolerate it from his own seven-year-old son. Without warning, he reached out and grabbed Raditz by the tail.
"Ow! Dad, what are you—hey!"
"Out." Bardock dragged his squirming son toward the door, ignoring the indignant protests. "Go play somewhere else. And if I hear you talking about your brother like that again, you'll be eating through a straw for a week."
"But I was just saying—"
"Out." He opened the door and gave Raditz a gentle but firm push into the hallway. "Find something useful to do with your time instead of picking on babies."
The door slid shut with a satisfying hiss, cutting off whatever comeback Raditz had been preparing. Bardock turned back to find Gine watching him with raised eyebrows.
"A little harsh, don't you think?"
"Not harsh enough." He moved back to the incubation pod, his expression softening again as he looked at Kakarot's peaceful face. "Kid's got to learn that family doesn't tear each other down."
Gine was quiet for a moment, then asked the question he'd been dreading. "So... the meeting. How bad was it really?"
"The worst." He reached out and placed his palm against the pod's warm surface. Kakarot immediately moved toward the contact, tiny hand pressing against the glass as if he could feel his father's presence. "King Vegeta's got us playing delivery boys for Cold's empire. Conquering planets just to hand them over."
"It's temporary, right? Just until we can figure out another way?"
Bardock's shoulders sagged. "I don't know, Gine. I really don't know. King Cold isn't showing any signs of growing tired of controlling us. If anything, he seems to enjoy having us on a leash. And the way he looked at Vegeta..." He shook his head. "Like he was a pet that had learned a particularly amusing trick."
Gine stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek against his scarred shoulder. "I don't believe this will last forever," she said quietly. "Eventually, King Cold will run out of reasons to keep the Saiyans under his control. We're warriors, not servants. Sooner or later, he'll realize that caged animals either break free or stop being useful."
Bardock rested his hand against the glass of the pod, his palm dwarfing the tiny fist that pressed back against it. For a second, the house, the empire, the whole damned galaxy disappeared. It was just him and his son.
"You'd better grow up damn strong, Kakarot," he said, his voice rough but steady. "Stronger than me. Stronger than all of us. Strong enough to tear down every chain they try to put on you."
The reflection in the pod showed the same scarred, tired face he'd carried through a lifetime of battles—but his eyes gave him away. They weren't the eyes of a soldier or a survivor. They were the eyes of a father who was asking the impossible of his child.
A hand touched his shoulder. Gine. She leaned into him, her warmth cutting through the cold that had settled into his bones.
"He will," she said, looking at their son like she could already see the man he'd become. Her tone was calm, certain—like it wasn't even up for debate. "Because he's your son. And if there's one thing I know about you, Bardock, it's that you don't break."
He turned toward her, and for a moment the tension bled out of him. She believed it—believed in him, in the boy, in a future where Saiyans weren't leashed. Somehow, she always carried that light.
Bardock pulled her close, holding on just long enough to steady himself. When he looked back at Kakarot, the words came out more like a promise than a statement.
"Then we'll make sure he gets the chance. Grow strong, kid. Strong enough to outlive us all."