Among the Ruins.

It took a full fortnight to cope with the damage Brokka had left in his wake. Much of the colony's infrastructure was irreparable. Many of the soldiers were incapacitated, despite the dedicated work of the medical team. . The circumstances of meeting Frieza were about to have a drastic adjustment. She sighed as she walked to the auditorium with slow and heavy steps. Celeria had arranged a meeting of what remains of the colony. They would need to discuss the matters of the challenge at hand. Celeria had scrapped her battle plan the moment Brokka left the planet. She guessed that they would have to opt for more drastic measures.

Celeria was the first one to arrive to an empty auditorium. The vastness of the place was imposing. She took her place in the centre of the room as the others were making their way inside. They all entered and took their seats in silence. Each and every one of them looked tired, disgruntled - defeated. As if they themselves had their face run into the ground. Truth be told, most of them did. She observed them all with keen and calculated eyes. Her expression seemed unwavering as she leaned into her seat. Although inside she raged, outside she radiated invulnerability.

When everyone was seated, she rose from her chair:

"This colony is as good as dead." - she shouted, beginning her speech.

"And it's high time we got off its rotting carcass." - she observed the faces in the crowd. By the looks, she knew she didn't have to go into detail.

"However, certain changes have been made. As you already know, Frieza is nearly upon us. I regret to inform you that I have no illusions that the "welcome party" will live to tell the tale.

Given our losses in the most recent incident, I have ordered a complete migration to take place. Most of you are to proceed ahead to the new planet. I will be staying behind to ensure the success of the mission."

There was a low murmur. Some were incredulous, others astounded. It didn't matter much to her.

"If anyone else wants to join the fun, I won't say no. But know that by volunteering for the 'welcome party', you're signing your life away to ensure the future of our race." - she smirked playfully. In her gut, she secretly loved the idea of meeting Frieza head on, even if it did mean her death. She had failed in her mission with Brokka, she would not make the same mistake with Frieza.

"You are all to be at your finest for this. For you are the very last members of a dying race. Whether our proud saiyan heritage is going to crumble and die, or whether it will emerge with a burning vengeance is entirely up to you. Me? I'm going to make Frieza realize we will NEVER crumble and NEVER die. That he can hunt and rage all he wants but in the end - a saiyan will spit on his grave."

With that, she rose from her seat and left the auditorium. As she walked out, scouters started beeping. Celeria had made sure each and every saiyan would have their duties reported to them. There wouldn't be any more mistakes now that each one posed a threat to their survival.

Mokra had been out of the healing tank for quite a while. But for him to get completely used to not having something he had since he was born, something everyone else had. Something that just couldn't not be noticeable. It took a fourteen days. For him to get used to work with out one of his members. He could remember when he was awake in the tank, looking through the water at the medical personnel doing their everyday jobs. Mokra's job was train. And although he still didn't have an arm, nothing would stop him from visiting the training grounds for some good exercise. Besides being good, it was needed. Training, even though harder, became of an even higher importance. Mokra had to get severely stronger if he wished to be compared to the likes of the Commander or even Lieutenant Espara. At least, Espara was able to come out of the battle mostly unharmed. Mokra didn't know the extent of his possible injuries, but he wished the fellow saiyan well. At least, both of the saiyans could think they were spared a cruel death at the hands of someone from their own kind. Damn Brokka.

Mokra made his way into the auditorium, with several of his brothers behind him. He was the first to enter, and to notice the commander already in the room. He took his seat, very quiet, as he was interested in knowing what Celeria had to say, that wouldn't bring the colony down. As most saiyans, Mokra looked tired. Not tired of fighting. Simply tired of living. He was living to die. One way or another, Brokka or Frieza, he was gonna end up dying. He, however, would much rather be killed by Frieza. Somehow, he wasn't sure how that came to happen, but knowing a fellow saiyan had been the cause of his death was completely horrifying. Frieza, however, had already killed thousands of saiyans. Why bother if he killed another one?

As Celeria started to talk, Mokra tilted his head. He wanted to hear everything loud and clear. He even motioned for several of his comrades to hush.

"This colony is as good as dead." - Mokra could definitely agree. Brokka had taken saiyans with him, and destroyed some of those who wanted to stay behind. Coming to think of it, Mokra was actually lucky.

"And it's high time we got off its rotting carcass." - Mokra understood Celeria was talking about the migration that was about to take place. Mokra had discussed this with Celeria. He was staying too. No matter if only had one arm.

Ah yes. The Welcome Party. Mokra could only  imagine Frieza's face when he found out a handful of Saiyans was waiting for him. And the others were gone. Even if Mokra had already perished by the time Frieza discovered that, a sick and twisted smirk would hit his face in HFIL.

Risking my life? I've done that a few times. I can do it again! He thought. Sure, Brokka nearly took his life. But he had been in other predicaments as well. And for now, he had always came out victorious. Brokka sure ruined that little score. But it wouldn't be long until someone was able to destroy Brokka. There's always a stronger person. Always. No matter what we do.

"...a saiyan will spit on his grave." - Mokra sure hoped so. Frieza deserved pain inflicted upon him. Pay for all of his crimes against the saiyans. Sure he had enslaved hundreds of other planets and races. But to Mokra, as with other saiyans, what mattered was his family. His race. Frieza had taken his own father away from Mokra. The little greedy, tail wagging bastard was gonna pay. Dearly.

As the commander rose from her chair, Mokra did the same. He had a small appointment at the medical bay, and didn't want to waste any other, now, precious time. As Mokra left the auditorium, his scouter beeped. And he could hear the scouters of his comrades doing the same. Welcome party. Get ready! Mokra was gonna stay back. And so it seemed that after his little "thing" with the doctors, he'd quickly find Celeria, and ask her what was next to come.


Mokra hovered through the halls, quickly getting to where he wanted to get. He could feel many eyes observing him. He wasn't different. He had simply a bigger scar from war. That was all people needed to know. As he entered the medical bay, a doctor greeted him. "Ah Mokra, welcome. Sit there, Doctor Kale shall be here soon enough" Mokra nodded, and did as he was told. He didn't sit however. He was too impatient. He leaned against the wall, next to the healing tanks, silently waiting.

Kale heard the whole speech, but he had been far too busy to meet the Commander and the others in the auditorium. He was packed to the tip of his tail with duties, and he was only just scraping the surface. Of course, the doctor had managed to listen to what Celeria had had to say as he worked in the med bay. Everything she had finally said was inline with the beliefs he had held all along. They were all going to die, and they were just simply waiting for the final blow. The more Kale thought on it, the more he meticulously analysed the scenario. Freeza and his legions of troops, an inadequately half destroyed Saiyan colony… the odds were definitely stacked against them all. Therefore the doctor chose not to dwell on any of it, he simply kept his mind on the task at hand. He would engineer a series of defences and a failsafe or two for the arrival of the PTO forces. His plan simply spanned the battle itself, not the almost certain death that would follow. Negativity was counterproductive after all, even if it did coincide with sanity.

As Kale tampered away at the technology before him, his mind drifted to the events of a fortnight ago. He saw Brokka and his emotional deadness, and he saw the mass destruction he had so easily caused. The doctor remembered his own battle with the General, and how he had been helpless to prevent him. His only success had simply been buying Celeria time. But what had that achieved? Ikolo was now MIA, and he’d laid to rest a number of his own people. His life as he knew it was at its final hurtle, and Brokka had forced the finality upon him. He was seldom serious, nor was he defeatist, but Brokka had doomed the entire colony to death! The egotistical General, and his dank morality had buried them all. Kale hated Brokka, he hated him like he only hated one other, Freeza. The core of this hatred originated from one source, and that was the fact that the General was a Saiyan, and he so simply sacrificed the lives of his own people. If the doctor had a wish, just a single wish, it was that he would see the day when General Brokka burned.

Kale frowned at the thought of the General, and he stopped fiddling with a prosthetic limb he had been making last minute adjustments to. Hatred was not becoming of him, but perhaps it was necessary. It was the only thing keeping him fighting.

“Doctor Kale.” Grape said, cutting the silence. “Private Mokra’s here for treatment. Shall I send him through?”

“Yeah.” Kale said blankly, “I’ve just finished the modifications to his prosthetic.”

“…Makes you wonder… why, doesn’t it?” Grape said with complete ambiguity. But surprisingly, Kale understood exactly what he meant.

“Yeah.” He responded, again blankly. But to put an end to the brevity of the moment, Kale did what he did best, withdrew into jest. “Brokka really does give a whole new meaning to disarming his opponent.” He swirled in his chair to meet Grape’s gaze and traded him an exhausted smile. Soon after the junior doctor brought Mokra into the med bay.

Kale stood and smiled optimistically, how sincere he appeared was entirely for Mokra to determine however. Behind him on a construction table was a metallic, prosthetic arm. It was an awfully advanced piece of technology, crafted by Kale himself. It was designed to replace Mokra’s missing arm and grant him additional benefits. Obviously it was no replacement for the real thing, but he was sure Mokra would be pleasantly surprised.

“Like what you see Private? This is your prosthetic. The most advanced synthetic limb ever crafted. How do I know that? Well I crafted it of course.” He grinned and placed both hands at his sides. As he looked down, he’d almost forgotten that he was wearing his battle armour, with his white doctoral cape draping over the shoulder pads. He looked quite professional, if only he felt that way.

“Are you ready for me to fit this thing? Kale asked, with a smile.

The prosthetic and Mokra were a perfect fit. The positronic circuits of the metal arm fused with the Private’s muscle tissue without issue. The synthetic nerve fibres were running at one-hundred percent efficiency, and the artificial limb was responding to neurotransmission as if it were flesh and bone. Kale was pleasantly surprised with his work, in fact, he hadn’t expected everything to work out so well.

After a battery of tests involving Mokra making use of his new arm with simple and complex motor tasks, the doctor resigned himself to the knowledge that his work was impressive even for him to behold. Kale crossed an arm and stroked his chin with his index finger and thumb. His bottom lip protruded as he spoke.

“Sure it’s made of synthetic fibres, and yeah your whole arm is metal… but it’s really a remarkable fit. Private, it’s almost as if you never suffered a loss at all. It might take some time getting used to regular motor tasks… drinking from a glass, eating… but eventually you’ll adjust.” The doctor remembered another pearl of information that he thought would be useful for Mokra to know. “And as your energy increases, the power output of your arm will also increase. It’s designed with microscopic conductors, so that it can store vast amounts of energy like a battery cell.”

Kale located the nearest seat and plodded himself down. He’d been working on the attachment for the last hour and a half, and his brain was frazzled, this sort of work was far more intense than even training.

“But that also means that when you get tired or fatigued in battle, your arm will also lose strength, just like a regular limb. It’s sturdy and an impressive piece of tech, but do try to keep it intact Private.” Kale smiled and raised a hand to ruffle his matt of dark hair. “Just try not to let it rust..” He laughed, and slouched back. “Any questions Private?”

Mokra went surprisingly well through the entire process. He didn't grunt, nor scream. Just like when his arm was removed. He simply remained silent, and ground his teeth a lot. But, alas, it seemed the prosthetic responded well to being attached to Mokra, as it seemingly worked perfectly. The first thing Mokra did was clench his metallic fist, and smirk. Brokka injured him, now he had his arm back. And he only had one thing in mind. Destroy that miserable excuse for a being. But he had to wait. He had to get used to that new body part. Learn everything about it. Make it his own arm.

Mokra firstly tried to lift it just by using his normal strength, and his normal movements. Easy enough, as the metallic arm came up. Morka then bent his elbow, as the prosthetic did a bit of a noise. Perhaps from being rather new. It'd surely stop once Mokra was used to it, and used it for a lot of things. He wondered if a punch from that metal arm would hurt more than a normal punch. Maybe he'd go training with Okara, and give him a swift fist in the face just to see the younger saiyans reaction.

"I hoped my loss hadn't happen. But it did. Sadly, part of me disappeared. But it seems I now have it back. And I promise I'll try not to break many glasses with this baby." He joked, as he continued to hear, quite captivated, the doctors words. He was quite surprised his little new arm could do so well. Maybe in a fight, he'd still hold his own because of the features of that prosthetic. He'd try sending blasts through it soon enough. But for now, that could cause serious trouble. So it would be easier for Mokra to wait when he was alone at the training facility.

"Figures, everything has a but..." Mokra said, with a sly smile. "I'll try to not have Brokka take this one away," - he continued with his jokes. He was definitely happy. And maybe those would lighten up the mood. As Kale moved onto to the matter of questions, Mokra thought deeply, passing his still flesh and bone made arm through his hair. But suddenly, something popped into his head. Like a little light, turning on in the dark.

"You said, Kale, it can take high amounts of energy. What if I have too much energy? Would it simply stop working?" - Mokra asked. There was a chance he'd never get that powerful. But what if he did? His arm would just be lost again.

He then continued, with more questions:

"Can this arm cause more damage than my normal arm?"

"Will gravity affect the prosthetic?"

-"Does it work forever? Or do I have to recharge it from time to time?"


Mokra inquired, rather curious to hear the answers. This was something to do with his own body. He felt like he had to know those things. If he didn't, he might as well just throw himself in space and wait for death to claim him. And that would be a rather sorrowful death. Which Mokra did not wish...

"You said, Kale, it can take high amounts of energy. What if I have too much energy? Would it simply stop working?”

Kale pressed his finger tips together in his swivelling chair and winced as Private Mokra spoke. He pretended his utmost that being called ‘Kale’ and not ’Doctor’ by a Private did absolutely nothing to damage his already enormous ego, but alas micro management of his facial expressions failed and he held a look of discomfort for a lingering moment. Quickly shaking off the embarrassment however, the doctor proceeded to answer Mokra’s query, but before he could even whimper a response the Private continued to throw a battery of questions his way.

"Can this arm cause more damage than my normal arm?"

"Will gravity affect the prosthetic?"

-"Does it work forever? Or do I have to recharge it from time to time?"

Each time the doctor opened his mouth, little more than a puff of exhalation escaped him as he was continuously interrupted. Finally he fell silent, and his lips forced an accommodating smile.

For a guy that’s just lost an arm, he certainly reminds me that he never lost his tongue.

The doctor’s smile became more pronounced, however this time he was amused by his own sentiment.

Again, so funny when nobody can hear me!

After a moment of prolonged silence, Kale zoned back in, almost completely unaware that Mokra had stopped speaking several seconds ago. Finally he could respond! The doctor exhaled heftily before answering, Mokra was the first man to knock the wind out of him without even having to lift a finger, the doctor mused.

“Its cybernetics are attached to your spinal cord, and thus your entire central nervous system. For all intents and purposes, that IS your arm. The more powerful you become, the more powerful the arm SHOULD become. The statistical chance of you burning a circuit because you become too powerful is…” Kale looked at his fingers and began a process of mental arithmetic. “…About 76,000 to 1... If one of the attachments displaces from your vertebrae that is.” He looked up to the ceiling in contemplation, “Or you try to plug it into the sun.” Kale looked back at the Private, “But I digress!”

Kale tried to recount Mokra’s questions that followed. “Not more damage, no… I mean your other arm looks pretty strong there already, the prosthetic might have trouble keeping up!...  And gravity will only affect the prosthetic if you detach it and throw it into the air, then it’ll come tumbling back towards you like anything else.” The doctor grinned and swivelled himself lightly from side to side in his chair. “And I think it works forever, but then, forever’s a long time. It’ll work for as long as your body works. The weaker you become, the more fatigued… the less proficiency you’ll get from the limb. The more you train, the more capable it’ll become and vice versa. Just don’t throw yourself in front of a freighter, huh?”

Kale stood up and folded his arms. He unconsciously scanned the Private’s physical profile, lingering mentally on the fact that Mokra was young, far too young to be facing what was to come. Losing his arm, in the long run, was really just the beginning. The doctor couldn’t bring himself to say such a thing however. He smiled again and finally said.

“Is that everything Private?”

Mokra waited. And waited. And waited a few seconds more, before Kale seemingly came back to the moment. In these times, it wasn't that hard to get lost in though, with all that was happening. It even happened with Mokra on occasions, and considering that Doctor Kale was much more involved with everything that was going on, Mokra had to cut the man a break. He was probably thinking about Freeza, General Brokka, and even that specimen Commander Celeria had mentioned that day before Brokka revealed himself to be within one of the many pods that still had asleep saiyans inside. So much to think about in such a short amount of time...

As he kept thinking before Kale was able to respond, Mokra reached the conclusion that his questions had probably made the young Doc go quiet for a bit. He was always the garrulous saiyan when the subject was of extreme importance, or if it was just extremely captivating. And having a metallic arm be installed seemed to be of enough importance for Mokra to not shut up.

Seems like I rambled for quite a bit, he thought, hiding away a chuckle that desperately begged to come out.

As the doctor went on and on, answering Mokra's questions without any sort of delay, Mokra liked what he was hearing. That arm, was, in fact, his own, that would try to keep up as long as he kept training. Wonderful, he wouldn't have any sort of problem with it then, after he got used to it.

“I think...so...” he responded, with a light and bright smile, and added a small nod.

Mokra, clearly content with his arm, looked straight into the doctor's eyes, bowing his head slightly, "Thank you for you work Doctor. I appreciate what you created." And he did, as Kale had just made Mokra feel whole again. As if he never lost his arm.

Walking towards Kale, the spiky haired saiyan extended his prosthetic, finally letting out a chuckle, "I'd be pleased if I could use this new member to shake your hand, Doctor," he sang out, as he opened his new, still shinning, metallic hand.