Chapter 31: Debrief
The sterile, recycled air of the Lodestar ship was a shock to Kakarot's system after the raw, blood-scented atmosphere of the cavern. It was the smell of bureaucracy, of cold metal and ozone, a universe away from the primal world he had just dominated. He stood in the main hold, ignoring the nervous glances of the technician crew as they scurried around him, inputting data and whispering into comms.
The squad leader, whose name he'd learned was Commander Grix, stood before him, a datapad in his hand, his bulbous yellow eyes wide with a mixture of anxiety and bureaucratic fervor.
"This is... highly irregular, Soldier Kakarot," Grix began, his voice tinny. "The official record is very clear. You were listed as medically non-viable after a confrontation with Prince Vegeta. Your life-pod was jettisoned with your body inside as per standard protocol for high-risk bio-contaminants."
Kakarot met his gaze, his own expression a mask of bored contempt. He leaned against a bulkhead, crossing his arms, the scarred remnants of his armor creaking. "Yeah. I got that part. Woke up in the dark, floating. Pod was dead. Systems fried. Hurt like hell." He delivered the lines flatly, as if describing a minor inconvenience.
"Woke up?" Grix sputtered. "The med-bay report indicated catastrophic neural collapse! The regeneration tank's logs confirmed it! You were brain-dead!"
"Guess your machines were wrong," Kakarot said with a slow, deliberate shrug. "Not really awake, like I was just aware of somethings but I was still out of it. Happens. Saiyans are tough. You wouldn't get it."
He could see the conflict on Grix's face. The man was a slave to data, and the data was screaming that this was impossible. But here Kakarot stood, solid, breathing, and utterly unconcerned.
"The pod," Grix pressed, tapping his datapad. "Its trajectory was logged for deep-space disposal. How, by the Great Frieza's tail, did it end up crashing back on the very planet it left?"
This was the core of the lie, and Kakarot had prepared for it. He let a flicker of genuine, Saiyan arrogance show. "You think I know? I was busy being dead. When I came to, the nav-system was a mess of error codes. Looked like something caught it, maybe from a passing asteroid cluster. Dragged it right back into the planet's pull. All I know is one minute I'm floating, the next I'm on fire and the ground is coming up to meet me. Smashed into the Southern Plain. Nearly finished the job Vegeta started."
He gestured to his battered state, selling the story with his appearance. "Lucky to be in one piece."
Grix was scribbling notes furiously. "And your scouter? Why no distress signal?"
Kakarot snorted, a harsh, ugly sound. "Shattered on impact. Along with most of the pod's comms. Like I told your men, I've been waiting. Knew someone would come to check on the merchandise eventually." He pushed off the bulkhead, taking a step towards Grix, who instinctively flinched back. "So. Are we done with the questions? I've been eating raw game and drinking stagnant water for weeks. I want a hot meal and a report on my brother's location."
Grix held up a placating hand. "Patience, soldier. Protocol must be followed. You've been listed as terminated for a standard cycle. Your reappearance requires a full debriefing for the official record." He led Kakarot to a small, stark interrogation room off the main hold, a metal table and two chairs. A recorder was activated on the table, its red light blinking.
"State your name, rank, and last known assignment for the record," Grix began, his voice formal.
"Kakarot. Third Class. Under the command of Prince Vegeta. Our last assignment was the cleansing of Planet PX-723."
"And the circumstances of your... separation from your unit?"
Kakarot leaned back, his chair groaning. "Like I said. The Prince and I had a disagreement. He won. I woke up in a dead pod heading for the scrapyard. Next thing I know, I'm crashing back here."
Grix's eyes narrowed. "A 'disagreement'? The report from Prince Vegeta stated you were insubordinate and defeated in combat. He confirmed your termination."
A cold fire ignited in Kakarot's gut, but he kept his face neutral. So, Vegeta had officially written him off. Filed the paperwork on his death. The insult was perfect; it made his cover story more believable. "Like I said. He won. Guess he was in a hurry to leave. Didn't stick around to make sure the job was done."
He let the implication hang in the air: Vegeta had been sloppy.
"And upon your unexpected return to the planet's surface," Grix continued, steering away from the dangerous topic of the Prince's possible failings, "what was your status?"
"Banged up. Armor wrecked. No weapons. No comms. But alive."
"And the native population? Our initial scans showed a ninety-nine point eight percent eradication."
Kakarot allowed a slow, predatory smile. "Yeah. Our scans missed a few. A small group. Hybrids. They'd hidden themselves well during the main cleansing. Caves, deep fissures. Smart. For primitives."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping, becoming conversational, which was somehow more threatening than a shout. "They were the ones who found me. Dragged me out of the wreckage. Thought I was a prize. Thought they could keep me." He chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "They were wrong."
Grix was captivated, his bureaucratic mind trying to process the sheer, brutal reality of the story. "What did you do?"
"What any Saiyan would do," Kakarot said, his eyes glinting. "I got busy. It gave me something to do while I waited for you. They were pests. Annoying. But they kept me sharp. I'd hunt them. They'd try to hide. I'd find them. It passed the time." He made a dismissive gesture. "Took care of the last of them just before your ship showed up. Nasty little fight in a cave system. But it's done. The planet is clean. For real this time. You can tell your buyers that a Saiyan personally guaranteed it."
The story was flawless. It explained everything. His survival was a fluke of Saiyan biology and a navigational error. His prolonged silence was due to broken equipment. His activity was that of a dutiful, if stranded, soldier, finishing the job his team had left incomplete. He was not a hero, but a consummate professional.
Grix finally stopped writing. He looked from his datapad to Kakarot and back again. The data was still conflicted, but the being sitting in front of him was undeniably real, and his account was grimly plausible.
"Very well, Soldier Kakarot," Grix said, switching off the recorder. "Your account has been logged. We will transmit a preliminary report to Sector Command. You will be transported to the nearest Frieza Force depot for full medical evaluation and re-assignment."
Kakarot nodded, the picture of stoic acceptance. "Fine. Just get me out of here."
As he was led to a sparse quarters to await the journey, Kakarot allowed the mask to slip for a moment, alone in the dim light. The performance had been a success. He had woven a perfect tapestry of half-truths and Saiyan stereotype. They saw a resilient, simple-minded warrior, not a patient schemer.
He thought of Moori, hidden in the dark, a secret key to greater power. He thought of Vegeta, who would soon receive a report that the tool he had discarded had somehow found its way back into the toolbox.
A slow, cold smile spread across Kakarot's face. The first pawn had been moved. The board was set. The real game was about to begin.
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