POTATO

I needed to stop coming here.

Every single time I told myself I'd just check from a safe distance, and log the data like a responsible divine beautiful entity. And every single time, I ended up crouched behind a rock formation on some random patch of Planet Vegeta, watching Escarot train like some kind of stalker, as if that brutish boy was so lucky!

I was the Beautiful Goddess of Time. I had better things to do!

I just couldn't think of any right now, that was all.

My disguise was holding — mostly — and as long as nobody looked too closely at me, I was just another low-class Saiyan lurking around the training grounds. Which was normal. Saiyans did that. They watched each other train all the time. It was a whole thing. So me being here wasn't suspicious.

Me being here for the fourth time this week, though? That might start raising questions. They might start thinking I have a crush on him or something!

I shifted behind the rock, pulling my scouter down tighter over my face. The thing was uncomfortable as hell. But alas, wearing a scouter made me look like a Saiyan. Take it off, and I was just a weird-looking girl sitting in a pile of rocks for no reason.

The tail was the hardest parte. After months of trial and error watching video tutorialz, I'd gotten the look right, but I kept forgetting it was there and letting it hang limp instead of wrapping it around my waist like they did. Little details. Sloppy work, honestly. 

Right now, Escarot was in the middle of his third training session for the day, and he was pushing hard. Harder than the last few times I'd observed. His power was fluctuating wildly — spiking up, dropping, spiking higher, dropping again — in a pattern that I'd initially assumed was just sloppy control.

It wasn't.

The pattern was too consistent to be simple inexperience. The fluctuations weren't random. They were rhythmic. Like a heartbeat. Like something underneath his power was pulsing, trying to break through, and his body was fighting to keep it contained.

Something that felt wrong.

Escarot had stopped moving. He was standing in the center of the training ground, fists clenched, breathing hard. The aura around him was flickering between gold and something else — a greenish tint that appeared for half a second at a time before vanishing.

I'd seen that green before.

A very long time ago, in a timeline that ran parallel to the main branch before diverging so hard it might as well have fallen off a cliff. A Saiyan boy, screaming at the sky, his body literally ripping apart as something forced its way out of him like a parasite wearing his flesh as a costume. Power so dense and so violent that it didn't just overwhelm the user — it consumed them. Ate them from the inside out. Rebuilt them into something that was barely recognizable as Saiyan anymore.

Broly. The first variant.

The First iteration of the Legendary Super Saiyan of that particular timeline had been less of a transformation and more of a mutation. His body couldn't handle what was growing inside it, so it changed — muscles tearing and reforming in real time, skin stretching over mass that shouldn't have fit, the whole process looking less like a power-up and more like a cocoon that was failing to contain what was inside it.

It was one of the most viscerally unpleasant things I'd ever witnessed, and I've witnessed the collapse of entire timelines.

A freak occurrence tied to that specific timeline's version of events. The universe's way of rolling a natural one on the genetic dice. A variant of the legend so extreme that it barely qualified as the same legend anymore. That Broly was unique. Had to be. The conditions that produced him were too specific, too wrong, to replicate naturally.

And now I was looking at Escarot, and I was seeing echoes of it. I wasn’t sure, but it… looked like it.

Escarot's body wasn't tearing itself apart — not yet, anyway. Whatever was happening inside him could be different, I wasn’t sure, I was still trying to figure out what it was. But the signature was there. Buried under layers of Saiyan ki and whatever else he'd stacked on top of it, that same frequency was humming away like a tuning fork.

His power felt like it was trying to tear him into a new being.

Which raised a very, very uncomfortable question.

Because Broly — the other Broly, the second variant, the one from the later timeline — was different. Cleaner. His transformation was violent, yes, but it wasn't self-destructive in the same way. His body could handle the power. It strained, it pushed, it hurt — but it held. The green came from a different source, a different mechanism entirely. Same legend, different branch on the tree.

Two versions of the same mythic figure, existing in different timelines, produced by different circumstances, manifesting in completely different ways. That was fine. That was normal. The multiverse was full of duplicates and variants and alternate versions of the same people. Par for the course.

But no timeline was supposed to have both.

The first Broly — the original variant, the one whose body tore itself apart — belonged to a specific timeline with specific conditions. The second Broly — the vampa variant, the one who could actually hold his power — belonged to a completely different one. They didn't overlap. They weren't supposed to exist in the same reality.

So why did Escarot's power feel like the first one? While his little brother felt like the second?

If the second variant was the one native to this timeline — and based on the historical markers I'd checked, he should be — then the first variant's signature shouldn't be showing up anywhere. Especially not in a completely different Saiyan. That was like finding dinosaur DNA in a modern bird. The connection was there, theoretically, but you weren't supposed to be able to extract it and use it.

Unless this timeline wasn't following the rules at all. Which, honestly, was becoming a theme.

I really needed a break, and this God forsaken planet had nothing even remotely similar to a spa.

FRIEZA

The corridor leading to my father's chambers was long.

That was by design. Father believed in architecture as a power statement — every hallway in his palace was built to make visitors feel small, insignificant, and very aware of how far they were from the exit. High ceilings, narrow walls, no windows. Walking through it was like being swallowed.

My entourage followed behind me at a respectful distance. Two attendants, three guards, and a protocol officer who had been trying to hand me a data pad for the last five minutes. I ignored him. Whatever was on that pad could wait. What I was about to discuss with my father could not.

I'd received the former queen of the monkeys one week ago, and alongside her the tale of betrayal. After that, I'd spent two of those days deciding whether it was worth my time and one day deciding that yes, it was, because if even a fraction of what she'd implied was true, then the Saiyans had been hiding something from me. And I did not enjoy being kept in the dark.

The sound of footsteps echoed from ahead.

I slowed.

Cooler rounded the corner.

Of course it was Cooler.

He was alone, which was unusual. My brother typically traveled with at least a small retinue — not because he needed protection, but because Cooler liked the aesthetic of having people follow him around. It reinforced the image. Everything Cooler did was about the image.

"Frieza," he said. He didn't stop walking.

"Cooler," I said. I didn't stop either.

We met in the middle of the corridor. Two people who hated each other trying to occupy the same space in a hallway that was only wide enough for one. Classic.

Cooler was taller than me. Not by much, but enough that he could look down at me by a fraction of an inch, which he did every single time we were in the same room. It was his favorite move. Pathetic, really, but consistent.

"You're heading to see Father," he said. Not a question.

"I am."

"So am I." He tilted his head slightly. "Shall we walk together? Save the corridor the wear and tear."

"I'd rather not."

"I wasn't asking."

We started walking. Side by side. Close enough that our shoulders almost touched, which neither of us wanted. The corridor suddenly felt much narrower than it had a moment ago.

"Interesting week," Cooler said casually. Too casually. He wanted something, but what was his angle?

"Is it?"

"Quite. I've been hearing things."

"People hear things all the time. Most of them are stupid."

"These are stupider than most." He glanced at me sideways, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Something about the Saiyans. Whispers that they might be getting ideas above their station. Echoes of a rebellion, if you can believe it."

I kept my expression perfectly still. Inside, something cold shifted.

"Rebellion," I repeated. Flat.

"That's the word on the wind. Monkeys getting restless. Thinking they're more than what they are." Cooler's tail swished behind him in that slow, deliberate way it always did when he was enjoying himself. "Which is, of course, absurd. Saiyans rebelling. Against you. The thought alone is almost funny enough to be worth laughing at."

"Almost?"

"Almost. It would be funnier if it weren't so sad."

We walked in silence for a few steps. My guards were far enough back that they couldn't hear us. Cooler's absence of an entourage suddenly made a lot more sense. He'd planned this.

"You seem well-informed about rumors concerning my subjects," I said, holding myself from striking him.

"I'm well-informed about everything, little brother. It's one of my many admirable qualities."

"Admirable isn't the word I'd use."

"No, you wouldn't. You don't admire much, do you? Hard to admire anything when you're convinced you're already the best thing in every room." He said it lightly. Smiling, even. Like he was commenting on the weather.

"I don't need to be convinced. I simply am."

"Of course."

More silence. The corridor stretched on ahead of us, endless and windowless. My tail curled behind me, tight and controlled. Cooler's kept swishing.

"Where exactly are you hearing these rumors?" I asked.

"Here and there. You know how it is — the empire is large, people talk, things filter up. The usual channels."

"The usual channels being?"

Cooler waved a hand dismissively. "Does it matter? It's all nonsense anyway. You know that as well as I do. The Saiyans aren't going to rebel. They're not clever enough to organize a lunch order, let alone an uprising."

"Then why bring it up?"

"Because I find it interesting that someone is spreading these stories in the first place. And I find it even more interesting that the source seems to trace back to a very specific person." He paused, letting the silence do the work. "The former queen of the Saiyans, if I'm not mistaken. The one with all the motives to lie. The one who supposedly has very... colorful things to say about you to anyone willing to listen."

I said nothing.

Cooler smiled wider.

"Scorned women, Frieza. They do love to talk. And she has quite the audience now, doesn't she? No throne, no power, no people to rule — but plenty of resentment and plenty of ears willing to listen. She's painting you as weak. Did you know that? Telling anyone who'll bend an ear that the great Frieza was fooled by monkeys. That he let them hide things from him. That he's losing his grip." He clicked his tongue. "Silly gossip, obviously. But persistent gossip. The kind that sticks if you don't address it."

"And you felt the need to address it for me."

"I felt the need to point out that you're about to walk into Father's chamber and bother him with stories that originated from a bitter, powerless ex-queen who's trying to stay relevant by whispering poison in the dark. That's not a rebellion, Frieza. That's a woman with too much time and too many grievances."

"Your concern is touching."

"It's not concern. It's advice. There's a difference. Concern implies I care whether you look foolish. Advice is just me being helpful."

I stopped walking. Cooler stopped a half-step later, turning to face me with that practiced look of mild amusement he wore like armor.

"Let me be very clear about something, brother," I said. "I don't need your advice. I don't need your observations. And I especially don't need you intercepting me in hallways to tell me what is and isn't worth Father's time."

"I'm not telling you. I'm suggesting."

"Your suggestions are unwanted."

"They usually are. That's never stopped me before." Cooler clasped his hands behind his back, the picture of composure. "Look, Frieza. All I'm saying is that Father has real matters to attend to. Territory disputes in the eastern sectors. The trade negotiations with sector Z. The restructuring of the garrison forces after that whole incident with the Gloobe rebellion. These are things that affect the empire. The Saiyans whispering about rebellion because a bitter old woman is stroking their egos? That's a pest control problem. Handle it yourself. Don't waste Father's time with it."

"And if it's more than gossip?"

"It won't be."

"But if it is?"

Cooler looked at me for a long moment. The smile didn't waver, but something behind it shifted. Something harder. Colder.

"Then handle it anyway," he said. "That's what you're for."

"Fine," I said after a monent. "If you're so eager to discuss empire matters, then let's discuss them. Here. Now. You wanted my attention, Cooler? You have it. Talk."

Cooler's smile changed. Slightly.

"Gladly," he said. "Shall we?"