ESCAROT

I didn’t even make it halfway through the palace before the call came in.

One of the attendants rushed up to me, slightly out of breath, datapad in hand. He didn’t speak right away—just held it out like it might kill him if he kept it too long.

“My King,” he said, “priority transmission. External.”

I stopped.

Okara, who had been walking a step behind me, raised a brow.

“That was fast,” she muttered.

Only one person could be calling me right now, Cooler. I took the datapad, glanced at the signal origin—and felt my jaw tighten slightly.

“…Of course,” I said, letting out of a sigh.

I didn’t even bother finishing the walk. I turned on my heel and headed straight for the communications chamber, Okara following without asking. The doors slid open as I approached, guards stepping aside immediately. The room was quiet, dimly lit, a single large projection terminal in the center.

I stepped forward and activated it. The screen flickered once, then stabilized as Cooler’s image appeared, arms folded behind his back, as he looked at me.

“Escarot,” he said after a moment.

“Cooler,” I replied.

Okara leaned against one of the walls behind me, arms crossed, watching, though he didn’t acknowledge her.

Cooler’s lips barely moved as he delivered the words. “My brother has begun to mobilize his forces,” he said, each word carrying the weight of impending conflict.

I should’ve killed her when I had the chance.

“He has set a course for your planet,” he continued, gesturing with his hands in a vaguely manner. “Based on current projections, he will arrive within two months.”

I let that sit for a second, then I exhaled slowly.

“…So she did go to him.”

Cooler’s eyes sharpened slightly.

“You sound almost relieved to have confirmation.”

“I was already expecting it,” I replied. “This just confirms it.”

Of course she went to Frieza.

There was no other move that made sense.

Sell me out, and get back her throne in a silver platter, even a blind idiot could see this outcome…

Frame it as rebellion.

Give Frieza a reason.

And Frieza—

He didn’t need much of one.

Cooler studied me for a moment longer, then his expression shifted—just slightly.

“…You allowed her to live,” he said.

A statement.

I didn’t deny it. That was my biggest mistake so far, being merciful.

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then—

“You are an idiot.”

Okara snorted behind me.

I ignored her.

“Yeah,” I said. “Figured that part out already.”

Cooler’s gaze didn’t waver.

“That woman has now accelerated a timeline that could have benefited us,” he continued. “Your sentiment has cost you control over the situation.”

“Not sentiment,” I replied. “Indecision.”

He was right, no point in trying to defend my own stupidity.

That was closer to the truth.

I didn’t know what to do with her at the time. I thought that she could raise her son, I thought… mercy was the best outcome.

So I did nothing.

And now—

Here we were.

Cooler tilted his head slightly.

“…A distinction without much value.”

“Fair.”

Silence stretched for a moment.

“It does not matter,” he said.

That caught my attention.

“Explain.”

Cooler shifted slightly, pacing once across the projection.

“This miscalculation,” he said, “may yet serve our mutual objective.”

I frowned slightly. “How?”

“My brother,” he continued, “is impulsive when presented with potential threats. He will not investigate. He will act.”

“Meaning he’ll destroy the planet,” I said.

“Yes.”

That tracked with his entire personality.

“So where’s the advantage?” I asked.

Cooler stopped pacing. “Timing,” he said. “I will ensure that my father does not accompany him.”

That made me pause.

“…You’re keeping King Cold out of this?”

“I will occupy him elsewhere,” Cooler replied. “He will not interfere.”

That was—

Big.

Frieza alone was a problem. One I wasn’t fully equipped to deal with.

Frieza and King Cold?

That wasn’t a fight. That was suicide.

“So you’re splitting them,” I said.

“Yes.”

Cooler’s lips curved slightly as he stepped closer to the projection, his presence filling the screen just a bit more. “What happens next,” he said, “is entirely dependent on you.”

After Frieza, and King Cold… he’s next. I would not make the same mistake twice, besides, if Frieza was capable of reaching Gold, who was to say he wasn’t capable of such result as well? The sooner I dealt with him, the better it would be for me in the long run.

“If you survive,” he continued, “and prove capable of dealing with my brother… then you will have demonstrated your value to this alliance.”

“And if I don’t?”

Cooler didn’t hesitate. “Then you were never worth the investment.”

Okara let out a low whistle behind me. “Wow,” she muttered. “Harsh.”

Cooler ignored her completely.

“Whether you live or die,” he went on, “is irrelevant to my end goal. I will achieve what I desire regardless.”

I crossed my arms.

“You’re playing a game with me,” I said, looking at him. “This doesn’t sound like an alliance. This sounds like you throwing me at your brother and seeing what happens.”

Cooler’s expression didn’t change. “That is because,” he grinned, “that is precisely what I am doing.”

I stared at him.

He held the gaze.

“You expect me to just go along with that?” I asked.

“I expect you,” he replied, “to recognize opportunity when it presents itself, besides I know you won’t run.”

I let out a short breath, then I shook my head slightly.

“…You really don’t care about the outcome.”

Cooler’s tail flicked once behind him.

“On the contrary,” he said. “I care very much.”

A pause.

“I simply do not require a specific one.”

This bastard… this only meant one thing, he had already accounted for both possibilities.

Win or lose— I wasn’t irreplaceable.

He moved forward.

I uncrossed my arms, letting them hang at my sides.

“Good luck, young King.”

The transmission cut immediately after.

The room fell quiet again.

Okara pushed herself off the wall, stepping closer.

“…So,” she said. “We’re fighting Frieza in two months.”

I glanced at her.

“…Yeah.”

She grinned.

“Nice.”

I shook my head slightly. She had no idea how fucked we were, but I had to admit… I was thrilled to punch the little bastard to a pulp, the mere idea of fighting made my blood boil with excitement.

“Let’s start training,” I said, cracking my neck.

Because whether I liked it or not—

The timer had already started, for war.

CHRONA - POTATO

I am a professional.

A trained, highly capable, extremely beautiful, time-managing, reality-maintaining— professional.

Which is why I am currently crouched behind a stack of crates, wearing armor that smells like burnt meat and sweat, pretending my name is “Potato.”

…

I hate everything about this.

I peek over the edge of the crate, making sure no one is looking directly at me. A couple of Saiyans pass by, arguing loudly about food and training schedules. One of them throws a bone at the other.

I think one of them is punching a kid for being too loud.

Normal.

Completely normal.

I duck back down and pull out my log.

A small notebook. Pink. With little stars on the corners.

Don’t judge me. I need something girly in this God forsaken planet.

I flip it open and start writing.

[Field Log #27 — Subject: Escarot Timeline Deviation]

* Infiltration status: Ongoing

* Disguise: Holding (barely)

* Smell: Unacceptable

* Observations: Everything is wrong

I pause, tapping the pen against the page.

“…Okay, not everything,” I mutter under my breath.

Just most of it.

I scribble more.

* Primary anomaly (Escarot): Returned from Yardrat

* Power: ABSURD (for any saiyan in this time period)

* Growth rate: ILLOGICAL!!!

* Conclusion: WHAT IS HAPPENING?!!

I stop writing and stare at the page.

Then I slam the notebook shut and press it against my forehead.

“WHY IS HE SO DAMN STRONG!?” I whisper-shout.

A Saiyan nearby glances in my direction.

I immediately straighten up, smile awkwardly, and wave.

“Nice day, right?” I call out. “So, uh… seen any time-altering plans around here?”

He stares at me.

“…What?”

“Nothing!” I say quickly, ducking back behind the crate.

Okay.

Okay.

I need to calm down.

I take a deep breath.

Inhale.

Exhale.

“I am a beautiful goddess,” I whisper to myself. “I am composed. I am graceful. I am not losing my mind over one overly strong monkey.”

I open the notebook again.

Carefully.

Professionally.

Beautifully!

[Correction:]

* Primary anomaly: Escarot returned significantly stronger than projected estimate.

* Potential trajectory: Approaching threshold far earlier than expected. Maybe Super Saiyan?

I pause.

Then I add:

* This is not supposed to happen.

Because it isn’t.

It really, really isn’t.

I flip back a few pages, scanning earlier notes.

Escarot was never supposed to exist, and when he did, he was never supposed to live past his sixth birthday.

He had grown beyond my wildest expectations.

I bite the end of the pen.

“Okay,” I mutter. “Think.”

He went to Yardrat.

Yardrat teaches spirit control.

Spirit control enhances efficiency.

Efficiency increases output without proportional cost.

Which means—

My eyes widen.

“…Oh no.”

I scribble aggressively.

* Hypothesis: Subject has gained access to advanced energy control.

* Result: Amplified combat effectiveness beyond natural Saiyan growth curve.

I stop.

Look up.

Then immediately slam the notebook shut again.

“That doesn’t explain EVERYTHING!” I hiss.

Because it doesn’t.

Not even close.

I peek out again.

There—across the training grounds.

Him.

Escarot.

Standing there like nothing happened.

Look at his time altering ass, I should kick him… look at him… Like he isn’t currently on track to completely derail billions of years of carefully observed timelines.

I narrow my eyes.

“…Suspicious.”

I duck back down again and scribble more.

* Subject demeanor: Calm

* Behavioral shift: Minimal

* Conclusion: I hate him.

I flip to a clean page.

[Timeline Projection Update]

* If Escarot fails to stop Frieza:

  * Timeline may partially realign with original sequence.

  * Planet Vegeta destruction = preserved event.

  * I would need to ensure Goku and Vegeta survive.

  * Other survivors = variable.

I nod to myself.

“Okay,” I whisper. “That makes sense. If he dies, things go back on track.”

I pause.

Then slowly lower the notebook.

“…But what if he doesn’t?”

Silence.

I stare at nothing for a second. He looks like someone who is about to mess with me again!

Then I start writing again.

* If Escarot survives encounter:

  * Timeline deviation becomes irreversible.

   *Future events: UNKNOWN

  * Risk level: HIGH

I underline that three times.

Hard.

Then I lean back against the crate and sigh.

“This is a mess.”

A loud thud echoes nearby.

I peek again.

Some Saiyans are sparring. Nothing unusual.

Good.

I slide out from behind the crate, trying to act casual.

Keyword: trying.

I walk up to a random Saiyan.

“Hey,” I say, way too brightly. “Quick question—how much is the meat this time of year?”

He blinks at me.

“…What?”

“You know,” I continue, nodding seriously. “Seasonal pricing. Very important.”

“…We just hunt it.”

“Right,” I say, writing that down. “Primitive economy. Got it.”

He stares at me like I’ve grown a second head.

I smile.

“Also,” I add casually, “have you noticed any, uh… time altering inconsistencies?”

“…What?”

“Perfect,” I say, scribbling faster. “Zero awareness.”

I walk away before he can say anything else.

Back behind the crate.

Safe.

Relatively.

I press my back against it and slide down slightly, opening the notebook again.

“Focus,” I mutter.

That short bastard is already approaching a threshold he shouldn’t even be close to. Actually, isn’t he stronger than Goku when he reached that level?

“All he needs is the trigger,” I murmur.

Rage.

Loss.

Something big enough to push him over.

I stare down at the page.

Then slowly write:

Super Saiyan potential: Blondie?*

I underline it once.

Then twice.

Then three times.

I flip the notebook open again.

Fast.

* New plan:

  * Observe Escarot closely.

  * Determine trigger conditions.

  * Buy a sandwich from Gine’s shop.

I pause.

Then slowly add:

* Stop asking stupid questions.

I stare at that last line.

“…That’s fair.”

I nod to myself, satisfied.

Then I stand up, dust off my armor, and take a step forward.

Immediately bump into another Saiyan.

“Oh! Sorry!” I say quickly. “Quick question—”

He groans.

“…What now?”

I hesitate.

Then—

“…Nice weather?”

He walks away without answering.

I sigh.

“…This is harder than it looks, maybe I should just call Trunks, he’s the expert.”