A new monster Sept 1, 2018 11:37:57 GMT
Post by Zarbon on Sept 1, 2018 11:37:57 GMT
Regeneration form: Recover 5% Health per turn active. +10% fatigue per turn.
Zarbon had been personal aide to Lord Frieza for many years at this point (aside from a brief period of time where he had been missing, presumed dead) and, for most of them, he had performed his duties admirably and praise had been heaped upon his broad, yet well-defined, shoulders. Yes, it had seemed like the beautiful Captain had stepped from one charmed life as a prince on his homeworld into another, albeit as a servant but one with significant privileges that were, in many ways, superior to those he had enjoyed as a royal. For example, the forces under his direct command were many times greater in number than the combined military might of his home planet. Whatsmore, as part of the Planetary Trade Organisation, Zarbon had access to technology which was far more advanced than anything they had possessed back on Zandor (the name of the tropical planet that was his birthplace).
All of this was to say that the Captain had no complaints about the path his life had taken; he didn’t miss being a prince, one of many brothers all jostling and squabbling among themselves for a seat at the table, hoping that this would one day lead them to a small throne of small country on a planet that was stuck in the dark ages. He didn’t miss that life one bit, though he had to admit that he did miss the beautiful tropical climate of his homeworld; it was something that he had yet to find a match for anywhere else in the universe.
Zarbon much preferred the life he had fallen into after his planet had been absorbed by the P.T.O. It was amazing really, how well he had taken to it, although the same thing could not be said for his brothers who, as far as he knew, still languished back on Zandor. They had been allowed to retain some semblance of the power they used to hold, they acted as stewards for the various regions across the country they used to rule over, yet it was the P.T.O that truly ruled there. He’d undertaken some research on his homeworld at some point since leaving it all behind and found that King Cold had offered the same deal to all of the different Kingdoms across Zandor, an offer that was graciously accepted by all but the most stubborn rulers, those to full of pride to realise that they had been subjugated. Of course, they were replaced in a heartbeat; Zarbon knew for a fact that one of his brothers, Throxan, had been elected as ruler of one such territory. He remembered finding this discovery quite amusing, Throxan had always been quick to capitalise on opportunities such as these and a part of Zarbon was happy to see that he was still up to his old tricks. But that had been 20 years ago, and the last time the teal-skinned alien had shown any interest whatsoever in his home planet. Until now, at least.
He was currently engaged in a particularly strenuous exercise regime inside the gravity chamber aboard his Master’s vessel. He’d been at it for hours, exactly how many, he didn’t know. All he did know was that he was tired. His body screamed at him for rest yet he couldn’t allow it, he still had a long way to go before he could call it a day. For the purpose of today's training was something more than simply gaining strength, if that were his goal, he could have, should have, stopped hours ago, when his legs weren’t threatening to buckle under the weight of his own body (albeit, greatly amplified by the very machine at the centre of the training room) and his muscles weren’t spasming painfully every few seconds.
"Arghh!" Zarbon screamed, fighting past the pain as he launched himself into the air with legs that protested under the strain.
Despite the pain that shot through every muscle in his body, Zarbon’s leap was still beautiful; his body soared along a perfect arc 30 feet high. At its summit, he tumbled, reorienting his body so that he could land on his feet.
The way he stuck the landing would have made an Olympic gold-medalist jealous, the joints in his feet and knees flexing just enough to absorb the shock of the landing to the maximum degree possible. Even so, it felt like the sockets inside those joints had been filled with broken glass and he was barely able to keep himself from screaming.
Come on, Captain, you can do better than this. You are better than this. You have to be if you want to fill those boots.
The boots he was referring to were figurative, of course; they were those left behind by the greatest soldier he had ever known, the late Captain Ginyu, founder of Lord Frieza’s most elite forces and also Zarbon’s best friend. The news of Ginyu’s death had only reached Zarbon recently, reported to Frieza months after the fact via the network of spies he had threaded throughout the P.T.O’s infrastructure. They had recovered the flight recorders from his and several other Ginyu Force space pods several months ago in an uncharted sector of the Galaxy. Not the pods themselves, just the flight recorders, their blast-proof armour coating scorched and warped by the heat that could only be found on the surface of a star or deep in the core of a world. The recorders themselves were found rotating around a type 2 star in a decaying orbit that would have seen them swallowed by the sun in a period of 3-6 weeks. Gravitational anomalies in the system, along with an elevated level of asteroids in the vicinity, suggested that, until recently, there had been a large celestial body occupying that same area of space that the flight recorders had been salvaged from. By all accounts, they were lucky to have found them at all considering how deep into uncharted space they were and how close they were to being swallowed by the star.
For as long as Zarbon had known the man, Ginyu had always liked to take his troops on ventures into uncharted territories, he considered himself something of an amateur explorer and he was particularly fond of taking, what he called, “shore leave” after a successful skirmish with the enemy. Zarbon believed that this must have been the reason for his being there, though he couldn’t confirm it by using the details found within the flight recorded (all this told him was that the entire Ginyu Force had made a brief stop on the new Planet Namek before heading out into unknown space).
There were no leads as to how the Captain had met his end and, in all likelihood, there never would be unless those responsible decided to show themselves. The thought that the one responsible for his friend’s death might never be brought to justice made Zarbon’s blood boil and gave him the strength he needed to push himself further. The aquamarine-skinned warrior summoned all of the energy he could muster and channeled down his arms which were stretching towards the ceiling on either side of his body. Zarbon’s hands began to glow a familiar turquoise colour as the power gathered there.
Sweat ran down the handsome alien’s temples in little rivulets that ran parallel to each other on either side of his face before finally converging at his chin and dripping down to sink into the tiny cracks between the armoured tiles that covered the floor. The Zandoran’s hair, usually impeccably styled and maintained, was matted and stuck to his head in places; the tightly-wound braid was beginning to unravel, causing the bulk of his emerald hair to hang in a clump by his shoulder blades. Even his facial features had seemingly become warped and twisted, no longer was he the delicate-featured Captain that ladies (and men) swooned at the sight of. In fact, it would be far more likely that you would turn and run in the opposite direction were you to come across the man as he was now; his soft lips curled back over his teeth in a snarl as he drew ragged breaths in and out of lungs that burned as if aflame.
Not yet! Zarbon thought, his hands still held out at either side of his body, their glow intensifying with every passing moment. There’s still more in there, I can feel it.
The problem was power. At his current level, the Captain didn’t possess enough of it. While it was true that he was one of the most powerful beings in the entire universe, he knew that there were others out there whose power rivaled or even exceeded his own and what was even worse was that they all came from the same place. Planet Vegeta. The world that his master had wiped from the face of the galaxy (at the behest of Zarbon himself as well as a few other trusted advisors) for the very potential that the Saiyan race possessed for evolution. But could it really be called such a thing? Evolution was meant to be the gradual development of a species over time, with beneficial traits becoming more pronounced from generation to generation. But what the Saiyans were capable of was entirely different; they seem to have evolved to the point where their bodies can adapt to hardship over the course of one lifetime rather than several. It was astonishing to see the growth that even a single Saiyan was capable of just by engaging in regular battle (which was all they were really good for anyway). Describing it in that way makes it seem like simple learning, as if the Saiyans had a knack for battle which allowed them to accumulate skills at a particularly enhanced rate, which was true to an extent, but it was also much more than that. Every part of them learned from their experiences of battle, from their minds, to the nerves that governed their reflexes, down to the very cells composed their muscles. Zarbon had never been able to confirm the hypothesis (because the Saiyan race had been all-but-extinct until very recently), but he had a theory that if you were to analyze a Saiyan’s DNA before and after a hard battle, you would see physical changes to their genetic structure. Of course, he was assured by every P.T.O scientist he had ever discussed it with, that it was entirely impossible for something like that to happen, but it was a belief that he still held to this day. It was why he had been such a strong advocate for the destruction of their homeworld; they were a useful tool to be sure, but only while they could be controlled, which was an impossible task when dealing with a planet full of them, all fighting and reproducing like rabid bunnies.
To Zarbon’s eternal regret, he had been among those who had suggested that Frieza spare the few remaining Saiyans that were off-world when the planet was destroyed; he had thought that they might prove useful for their general hardiness. And, to be fair, they had been useful, extremely so. Seemingly convinced by the fabricated explanation for the death of their homeworld, they had been more eager than ever to throw themselves into their work, especially Vegeta, who took it as an opportunity to vent his rage at the universe that had so cruelly taken his people and his birthright from him. The Captain had watched with some interest as the young prince grew into a man, his talent for battle was beyond any Saiyan that had ever lived. Even Vegeta’s father, the King (whose position was given to him by virtue of his great strength and retained for that self-same reason) had been but half as strong as his son now was, and he had barely even reached adulthood. Were it not for the terrible secret they had to keep from the Saiyan Prince, he would have inevitably been asked to join the ranks of Lord Frieza’s elite forces alongside himself, Dodoria and, to a lesser extent, Cui.
There were so many different ways that history could have played out that would have meant that the dreadful events on Planet Namek would never come to pass. If Vegeta had been accepted as one of Frieza’s most useful soldiers, perhaps he would have been content (much as Zarbon was) to bask in the glory of Frieza’s strength. Or, if he had just been killed along with the others, that would have been the end of it, no more Super Saiyans.
"Ugh!" Zarbon grunted with disgust.
How he hated that term. Such a pompous name from such a dirty race. But there might have been something to learn from their example. It was only by transforming that they were able to obtain power great enough to rival Lord Frieza, an ability that the prodigious Arcosian had displayed himself on numerous occasions (though, in his case, it could be argued that his “transformations” worked the opposite way around, suppressing his power rather than enhancing it). And Zarbon himself had another form, one which he had not used in a long time, not since the defeat that he had suffered at the hands of Vegeta, where the vaunted power that his monster-form afforded him had not availed him one bit. He hated having to rely on the power of such a gruesome form, which is why he had kept it hidden for so long.
It was now time to draw upon that power once again and it was the very reason that he was in this training room today, pushing himself beyond his limits. But there was another goal here, an idea that was inspired by the elegance of his master’s multiple forms. In many ways, Frieza’s various transformations resembled the purpose they were intended for, growing more compact and childlike as his power was compressed to a more manageable level. Even Zarbon’s own form, ghastly as it was, seemed suitable for the task it performed; his muscles expanded, affording him more strength and his bone structure shited, giving his body more leverage so that he might extract even more force from it. Even his teeth were somehow changed, becoming sharp as daggers so that he might rip and tear at the flesh of his enemies as if he were nothing more than a wild beast. It was disgusting, but even Zarbon had to admit that the form had saved him from death more than once and, in that way, he had come to begrudgingly respect it. For years, he had thought that this was the only transformation he was capable of, after all, it was not unique to him; many members of the Royal bloodline were capable of calling upon that primal power, it was what had allowed them to take the throne in the first place. But today he was aiming for something different; a form born out of necessity, that was why he needed his body to be in ruins before he would attempt the change; he needed to force it to adapt to his needs.
Emulating those Saiyans. How pathetically humiliating.
This was the thought that ran through Zarbon’s mind as he brought his hands down from either side of his body and thrust them out in front him. The energy he had spent all that time gathering was brought to bear in stunning fashion. The light generated by the wave of energy that left his palms was blinding, enough to bath the entire training room in an aquamarine light that swallowed up everything, leaving only a faint outline of the walls and the central console as the Captain screwed his eyes shut against the brightness.
He screamed, both out of pain and relief as he jettisoned the stream of Ki from his body, directing its path as it looped around the training room. It was something he had been working on lately, the ability to control the path of his energy after it had already left the body (the applications of a technique like this for battle were potentially limitless). As the beam arced around the central console, following an invisible line that drew a perfect circle that ran concentric to the circumference of the room. His target was his own body, this final attack held all of the power he could muster in his current state and he wanted it to ravage his body. It was madness, but if that was the price that had to be paid in order to become more like the Saiyans, then he would pay it gladly.
He turned slowly, his body stiff with exhaustion, just in time to see the blinding column of energy bearing down on him and with enough time to think:
I do hope this works. I’d hate for Lord Frieza to find out that I had committed accidental suicide whilst training. How embarrassing.
The energy hit him then like a freight train made up of light. He didn’t resist (he didn’t have the strength to) and was immediately swept along with its momentum, the great torrent of energy carried him around the chamber as it continued relentlessly along the circular path he had given it. All the while he was trapped on the end of that beam, his flesh sizzled and burned, sending needles of agony into every inch of his body. Instinctively, he tried to push himself from the path of the energy wave. His arms shuddered under the effort and he was able to raise his body away from the searing energy, but the pain did not leave his body, instead, it intensified as the tissue on his hands began to rapidly melt away.
Zarbon screamed and, with a gargantuan effort, was able to fling himself away from the teal wave of energy. The momentum from the attack stayed with him and his back slammed against the wall of the training room, driving the wind from his lungs and threatening to knock him unconscious.
NO! Not yet! He thought, clinging desperately to consciousness. Not when I’m finally ready.