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Sprawling, abundant greenery is certainly not what the Emperor of the Universe is accustomed to dealing with, nor the pesky vermin that slinks about the recesses of Capsule Corp’s indoor garden. Not for the first time, a soft, low-frequency rumble alerts Frieza of the creature’s presence, causing him to slam his copy of Meditations shut and shift his scarlet glare to far less important matters.
“You again.”
The parasite known as Scratch dares to chirp at him. To rub its mangy, flea-bitten coat up against his ankle — the one unoccupied by the GPS monitor created by Vegeta’s mate, of course. The perpetual reminder of his current predicament is enough to set the tyrant’s teeth on edge, right eye giving a dangerous twitch.
Oh, how he longs to eviscerate every last one of them.
“Foolish beast, can’t you see that I’m busy?” Frieza hisses. “Surely one of your handlers must be wondering where you’ve wandered off to. Now, shoo!”
Pointedly, he waves a hand at the furry sycophant, as sending it flying into the next realm would be deemed unacceptable by Earth’s wardens. Unfortunately, the feline hellion proves to be every bit as guileless as its masters, taking his outrage as an invitation to…
Hop. Onto. His lap.
His lap.
His lap!
With a beleaguered groan, Frieza shuts his eyes and bows his head. Grudgingly, he calls upon every scrap of ‘guidance’ he can recall from that vapid, sanctimonious book — a so-called gift bestowed upon him by the equally annoying and sanctimonious Whis, no less.
‘If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself, but to your estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment.’
Sweet hells, that’s a load of tosh if he’s ever heard it.
A boisterous laugh reaches his ears and Frieza jolts upright. Rather than taking this cue to leap to safety, the mammal stretches across his thighs and decides to make itself more comfortable, curling into a black ball and draping its tail over tiny paws.
Really, it’s enough to make him want to vomit. Or at least, it would, if he didn’t find himself so preoccupied by this… homo sapien, of all things.
Not far from Frieza’s perch, the one known as Yamcha stands tall and broad-shouldered beneath artificial sunlight. With the focused rigidity of a hawk, the Emperor watches the man pluck that ridiculous cap from his head, sending long, shaggy hair down his shoulders, angular features pulled into a grin. Frieza's throat constricts as Yamcha rakes his fingers through sweat-sodden locks, deep amber eyes sweeping across the conservatory until they meet his own.
Whether they widen in surprise or well-placed fear, Frieza does not know.
His own dark lips tighten as he suppresses the urge to sneer. He opts to clench his hands into fists instead, lest he give this simpleton the satisfaction of knowing he’s affected the Mighty Frieza in any way that matters.
Because he hasn’t. Not really, no matter how much his physiological responses and flaring nostrils threaten to suggest otherwise.
Seeing the Earthling’s complexion fade from bronze to a pale beige gives him a perverse sense of satisfaction, but as most things in his life as of late, it doesn’t last — cut short by the piercing squeal of a child.
Oh, right.
The mutt is here.
“Yamcha! Yamcha!” babbles that grating voice. Both Frieza and Yamcha turn to see Vegeta’s spawn scampering over, wearing an identical cap to his… teacher? Mentor? Whatever. The point is, it’s on backwards, and he looks ridiculous.
“I did it!” the boy exclaims, spreading his arms wide and laughing giddily. “I threw a knuckleball!”
These words don’t make much sense to Frieza, but apparently, they’re compelling enough for Yamcha to briefly forget whose company he’s sharing. His audacity is near-enough to send Frieza into a blind rage, if not for one minuscule detail:
Yamcha is smiling again.
“Alright! Great job, little man!” By now, he’s dropped to the boy’s height, extending a fist so said child can bump his own against it. Frieza had seen a version of this exchange before, between the God of Monkeys and Brat Prince of Saiyan. Vegeta had been less than enthused.
“See? I told’ja you’d be able to pull it off without wrecking the ball eventually!”
A load of derisory nonsense, Frieza thinks, rolling his eyes. What good is there in possessing special abilities if not to showcase them? The logic on this planet is completely backwards.
Though he attempts to tune out the exchange, he’d be remiss not to confess watching them from his peripheral, noting the ease with which Yamcha handles the unruly youth, golden eyes brighter than sunrise as another man’s brood scurries around his legs.
As Yamcha reaches down, pushing the cap out of the way to ruffle lavender locks, Frieza wrinkles his nose. Wonders if, perhaps, this former combatant has been assigned to the role of sitter while his parents toil away at their respective frivolities.
Hmph. He can think of few greater insults, and yet Yamcha appears perfectly content with his lot in life. It leaves a sour taste in Frieza’s mouth that has little to do with the glass of umeshu he’d just polished off.
“Hey, Mr. Frieza!”
Oh, wonderful, the tyrant muses, scowling. It’s finally cognitive enough to realize I’m present. Wordlessly, he raises a brow and leans forward on his elbows, waiting.
“Did’ja wanna play with us?” Vegeta’s inchling asks, rocking back and forth whilst swinging his stubby arms. “You look really bored.”
For a fleeting moment, the audacity of such a question renders him speechless. His eyes flit to Yamcha’s, if only because he’s the only other individual in the vicinity with a fully (see: allegedly) developed brain. When their gazes meet, he’s taken by the delicious fear reflecting at him. How cute Yamcha looks; pupils shrinking, eyelids raised, sculpted shoulders tightening as the tremors set in.
But most perplexing — dare he say, even compelling — is the fact that he shifts his weight, stepping in front of a child who should have never been his burden to begin with. That he manages to hold Frieza’s stare despite the primal fright glistening within his own, reeking so thickly of it that the Emperor’s mouth dares to water.
Frieza swallows. Clears his throat, lifting his chin high and peering down his pert nose at them. Across the garden, the boy stares, impatient and oblivious as ever, the spitting image of his father. As if one Vegeta wasn’t tiresome enough.
“First of all, that’s Lord Frieza to you, little monkey. You shall address me with respect lest I’m forced to teach it to you myself.” Remembering his own hand in rearing Vegeta brings a faint smirk to his lips. “Secondly, I do find myself growing rather weary of my studies.” He casts a scathing look at the leather-bound hardcover on the table, then allows his eyes to wander back to the apprehensive Yamcha. “I suppose it would be beneficial for me to take an intermission, so long as you don’t expect me to wear that preposterous headgear.”
He’d been hoping his none-so-subtle threats would instill at least some unease within the half-breed child. Alas, the boy simply blinks and shrugs his shoulders, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants.
“Yeah, sure, whatever.”
Whatever? Now it’s Frieza’s turn to blink, taken aback by the child’s gall. Again, his head snaps in Yamcha’s direction, waiting for him to correct this most offensive display of insolence, only to find the human fighting back a smile, of all things. His scent of fear still lingers, yes, but it’s nowhere near as potent as before.
It’s all Frieza can do not to throttle them both, consequences be damned.
“Alright, guess it’s settled, then,” Yamcha declares, clasping his hands together and taking on the same good-natured tone he’d adopted before. “Frieza — uh, I mean, Your Majesty — I’m gonna assume you’ve never done this before, right?”
Frieza rolls his eyes. “My, aren’t you astute.”
A flustered laugh spills from the human’s lips as he rubs the back of his neck, eyes scrunching in a way that makes the Emperor’s abdomen tingle. He elects to dismiss it as an after-effect of human-made liqueur.
“Yeah, I kinda figured. But it’s easy! All it boils down to is hitting the ball, throwing the ball, and catching the ball.”
“And not throwin’ a hissy fit when you lose!”
“Trunks!” Yamcha hisses, shooting him a panicked look.
Ah, there we go. Back to normal.
“But yeah, it’s not a hard game to learn, a-and even if it was, I’m sure you’d catch on fast!” Yamcha continues. “And speaking of catching, do you wanna learn how to do that, or how to pitch?”
The more this nonsense was explained to him, the more excruciatingly banal it all seemed. It was only marginally better than slogging through Whis’ thinly-veiled attempts at rehabilitation. With a put-upon sigh, Frieza rises from his chair, sashaying over and spilling the Briefs family pest onto the ground in the process.
“Oh, please. Any imbecile in good health could do those things.” His tail gives an irritated flick. “If you fools are going to waste my valuable time with your mindless attempts at recreation, do attempt to be creative about it, at least.”
“But you just said you wanted—” Yamcha sputters, then seems to think better of it, taking a deep breath. By the time he’s calmed himself from whatever snit he’d gotten worked into, the cap has been pulled low over his eyes, as though to shield him from Frieza’s barbed remarks.
“Alright, fine. In that case, we’ll start with me as the batter, Trunks as the pitcher, and you as the fielder. That means you try to catch fly balls or grounders to get me outta the game.”
Frieza cocks his head. “Grounders?”
“That’s a ball that ends up on the ground after I hit it. All you gotta do is catch the ball. If you catch it, then you become the batter, I become the pitcher, and Trunks moves to the field. Makes sense, right?”
“Of course,” replies Frieza, who’s heard languages along the outer rims of space that made more sense to him. For better or worse, Yamcha seems to pick up on his confusion, trying once more to break down this archaic sport.
“It’s like playing tag, I guess, ’cept the only way you can tag someone is with the ball. Fielders try to tag each other, and batters run the bases. If the batter — that’s me — makes it to all four corners of the baseball diamond without being tagged, he scores a run, and that means he was able to get where he needed to go before the other team caught the ball.”
“Or threw it to first base before he got there,” chimes in Trunks, who was most certainly named by his mother. It truly is vexing how little fear the hybrid boy regards Frieza with; had his parents not warned him of his exploits? Or worse, did they have the audacity to downplay them? The very thought nearly makes Frieza’s eye twitch, and he struggles to keep the bitterness from seeping into his voice.
“So it is a game of tension and strategy as opposed to constant movement.”
Yamcha and Trunks exchange glances. “I never thought about it that way, but yeah, I guess so!” the former admits, scratching his head. “I took it up because it reminded me a lot of fighting. Hell, pitching’s not so different from throwing a punch.”
Frieza hums. “Is it, now? In that case, I would like to be assigned the role of pitcher instead. I doubt you two have provided each other with nearly enough challenge in that regard.”
There’s that exasperating silent communication between them again, as if the pair knows something Frieza doesn’t. “Alright, if that’s what you want,” Yamcha relents. “It’s probably better to start there anyway, since pitching shapes the whole flow and strategy of the game. Trunks, y’mind getting him the ball? Frieza—”
“Lord. Frieza.”
“Rrrright. Um, you see that green thing in the middle of the diamond, my liege? You’re supposed to stand on it.”
He points, and Frieza follows the trajectory of his finger to an elevated platform made of rubber and artificial turf. For the first time, the intergalactic despot notices various markings written across the grass in white chalk, along with a myriad of strategically-placed cushions and canvas bags.
How peculiar. If only to satisfy budding curiosity, Frieza does as he’s told, watching Yamcha with measured levels of caution — perhaps a little too intently, as fate would have it. A sharp, sudden rush of air prompts the Emperor to whip his head around, wide-eyed and rigid.
“Yo, Frieza, heads-up!”
Compared to ki-based energy, catching a measly cowhide ball in his hands is nothing, even if it was thrown by a nauseatingly strong prepubescent. Still, Yamcha whistles as if he’d performed some sort of miraculous task, pushing up the brim of his cap and giving him an affected once-over.
Frieza does not hate this.
“Dang, the guys weren’t kidding when they said you had some seriously crazy reflexes!” the human exclaims, eyes crinkling to reveal age lines he hadn’t noticed before. “’Cause let me tell ya, I wasn’t nearly as lucky the first time Trunks threw a fastball at me. Between him and Goku, I’m gonna have to start keepin’ a tab to help my Saiyan buddies to pay off all the dental bills, haha!”
Better than drifting through the far reaches of space as a bisected torso, Frieza thinks venomously, but holds his tongue.
“Y’know how I said baseball’s a lot like fighting in some ways, Your Majesty?” Yamcha goes on. “That goes for your stance, too. It sets the foundation for how you generate power. Try standing with your feet shoulder-width apart and bend your knees.”
Feeling two sets of eyes boring into him (three if you count that bothersome feline, who’s taken up residence in his cushy reading chair), Frieza’s stomach curdles, wondering just how his life has been reduced to following directions from such vastly inferior beings — and over recreational activities, no less. Forcing down his discomfort along with a rising gorge, he obeys once more, evenly distributing his weight.
“Great! Now show me how you wind up the ball.”
Hm, well. From Whis, such asinine attempts at positive reinforcement are nothing short of tiresome. From the likes of this particular mammal, however…
Yet again, Frieza swallows, noting his mouth’s sudden dryness. He raises his arm in one quick, direct motion, and already this infuriatingly beautiful creature is shaking his head at him, a sheepish grin plastered across his face.
“Heh… no, not quite, Lord Frieza. Here, let me show ya. Trunks, you can practice your swinging in the meantime.”
Unaffected by the child’s pout, Yamcha crosses the makeshift field, circling Frieza until he’s standing directly behind the tyrant – a bold move if there ever was one. Frieza is so impressed by his dauntlessness that he actually allows him to continue, however tentatively, watching him over one sculpted shoulder.
“Most pitchers put two fingers on top of the ball with their thumb underneath,” Yamcha says, moving his hands in a way Frieza can only surmise as mimicry, “but since your hand’s kinda small, s’okay if you use three.”
Frieza tries this. Yamcha winces.
“Uh, maybe not so hard. You’re kinda chokin’ it.”
“And what’s so wrong with that? I would have thought a gentleman such as yourself might appreciate a firm grip.”
He watches with unbidden glee as the mortal erupts into a coughing fit, eyes bulging out of his skull and complexion taking on a lovely roseate hue. From where he stands a few feet away, young Trunks has paused to stare at them guilelessly, wooden club halted mid-swing.
“No, no,” Yamcha eventually utters, wiping his eyes, “n-not like that, Your Majesty. You see, in baseball, a loose grip is essential for maintaining a healthy arm and maximizing your velocity. When you squeeze the ball like you’re trying to kill it, that causes muscle tension and slows down the whipping motion you need to pitch.” He pauses, as if considering his next words carefully, before adding, “Sort of like firing off an energy blast.”
“Oh?” Frieza asks, narrowing his eyes. “And how do you presume to know anything about that?”
“Hey, back when I was a fighter, I did a lot more than just throwing punches, Your Highness! My Spirit Ball attack and Wolf Fang Fist didn’t just appear out of nowhere!”
“And yet I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing them for myself,” Frieza drones. Tosses the baseball into the air and catches it with ease, running his index and middle fingers along its faded red seams. “Probably because your dear, sweet friends decided they’d be a meagre contribution to the Tournament of Power, were I to hasten a guess. How boorish of them to exclude you.”
Like clockwork, an oppressive silence falls over the makeshift diamond, and with it, a shadow across Yamcha’s dashing features. Frieza smirks. The effects of a crushing emotional blow are always an exquisite sight to behold — especially on such a pretty face. When the human finally speaks, it’s from a low, controlled register Frieza has never heard from him before, one that makes his tail perk with interest.
“Trunks, we’ll pick up where we left off another day. You should go see what your mom is up to.”
The shock on the boy’s face transitions to concern, gripping the bat so tightly his knuckles have turned white. He looks at Frieza hard, as if considering taking a swing at him. Clearly he doesn’t know how well that had ended for his father. “But—”
“Trunks.”
Dissuaded, the little monkey gulps, drops the bat, and scurries away, leaving the two of them in blissful solitude — at least until Mommy Dearest inevitably comes storming the gates. Well, that’s fine by Frieza. He’s done some of his best work operating within the confines of an unforgiving schedule. With a titter, the Emperor turns back to Yamcha, peering at him from beneath dark lashes.
“If you are attempting to win my respect, human, I can assure you running behind that woman’s skirt will earn you no such favours.”
“Dude, just knock it off for once, alright?”
Frieza’s jaw drops. Why, it would have come as less of a shock if Yamcha had lunged in an attempt to strike him! His lips move, but language evades him entirely, unable to comprehend the totality of offence that’s been dealt to him by this… this… king of fools!
In the absence of words, a snarl erupts forth. Alabaster fists clench at his sides, breath coming out hard and fast. Red clouds Frieza’s vision, the roar of blood in his ears reaching a fever pitch —
And the baseball promptly explodes within his grasp, making them both jump. Turns to ash and slips between his fingers.
Oh.
He’d… forgotten he’d been holding that.
Just as shock turns his bile to ice, Yamcha’s appears to have melted away. With a deep, bone-weary sigh, the human’s shoulders slump. As his head lowers, reaching up to pinch the bridge of a scarred nose, Frieza can’t help but be reminded of himself after a particularly gruelling work day. Such a similarity disquiets him, until Yamcha opens his mouth and cuts that train of thought blissfully short.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re one seriously angry little guy, Your Majesty?”
There’s that infuriating impudence again — so rash, clumsy and stupid that Frieza has to wonder if it’s less a conscious decision and more of a heedless impulse. Maybe that’s why he chooses to laugh rather than go straight for the mortal’s jugular, consequences be damned.
Or, hell, maybe this two-decade-long humiliation streak really has driven him mad, just like his subordinates liked to whisper about when they thought he wasn’t listening.
“On the contrary,” he replies, brushing the cinders off his fingertips. “They’re cosmic dust well before they get the chance.”
“Huh. Guess that makes me the first, then.”
“I suppose it does.”
A cacophonous sound catches their attention, and Frieza peers upward to see a flock of long-tailed birds soaring overhead in a mass of vibrant colours. To some, the creatures might have been considered beautiful. To Frieza, they’re little more than a reminder of saccharine prisons. He can only imagine what his face must look like, but the expression on it is enough to prompt a mirthless chuckle from Yamcha.
“Jeez. I’m really startin’ to think there’s not a lot that makes you happy.”
Frieza barks an acerbic laugh of his own. He thumps his tail against synthetic pasture, taking satisfaction in the way the human stumbles back.“Yes, and I imagine you would be faring just as well if you’d spent the last twenty years wasting away in some mawkish hellhole, only to be ripped out of it and placed in a new one entirely — not only by the will of a god, but your worst enemy, of all life forms!”
The caustic scent of Yamcha’s terror grounds Frieza, giving him a sense of purpose he hasn’t felt in months. Helps the (disgraced, bygone) Emperor fall into familiar patterns, slinking around this bothersome little man in a leisurely circle.
“Your beloved Goku thinks what he’s bestowing upon me is mercy. I can assure you—” Closer still, he ghosts his tail between the valley of Yamcha’s pectorals, trailing upward until the tip is pressed beneath an adorably quivering chin.
“It’s not.”
“S-so then what?” Yamcha manages to stammer, articulate even between rows of chattering white teeth. “You get sent back to that never-ending teddy bear picnic till you either go nuts, or get shoved through the freakin’ soul scrubber?”
When did this weakwilled invertebrate develop such a mouth on him?
“I’m not even going to ask who told you about my personal hell, lest I be tempted to smite them. Nor do I expect you to understand my current situation, given both your limited cognition and indoctrination into the cult of Goku.”
“Oh, yeah?” Yamcha asks between shallow breaths, raising a brow. A bead of perspiration rolls down his temple. Frieza’s eyes follow it. “Try me, sire.”
Now, it isn’t often the Emperor meets someone who can accept one of his insults with such quiet dignity. Consider him equal parts annoyed, impressed — and alright, fine, curious.
His hackles drop, as does his tail. With disdain, Frieza recalls the calming technique taught to him by Whis: exhaling completely, then inhaling quietly through the nose for four seconds, holding his breath for seven and exhaling forcefully through the mouth for eight.
Yamcha doesn’t question why someone like him is doing something so asinine, and for that, Frieza is grateful.
“Since it somehow has not been made clear enough, allow me to explain. I am not like the rest of you undesirables, nor will I ever be,” he says at last. “I don’t know how that simian’s corrupting influence has extended to the likes of Lord Beerus, but evidently, he has fooled him as much as himself into believing that my evil ways can be—” His nose wrinkles, upper lip curled as if tasting something foul, “reformed.”
Frieza represses the urge to shudder, then continues. “But who can say? My personal theory is that this act of so-called kindness is little more than an attempt to pacify me.” He folds his arms behind his back, leaning forward on the balls of his feet. His voice drops to a low, conspiratory tone.
“Beerus may be an indolent layabout, but he’s no fool. Had I been allowed to return to my empire, my next step would indeed have been finding the means to usurp and eliminate him. I don’t take kindly being forced into subservience, dear Yamcha, godhood be damned. So don’t you believe for a single moment that I won’t find a way out of this and make you all suffer grievously for my humiliations.”
A prolonged moment of quiet. And then —
“So… you don’t wanna play baseball with me?”
Frieza would have been less gobsmacked if Yamcha struck him upside the head with that stupid bat. “I beg your sincerest pardon?” he barks. “Did you not hear a single word I just said?”
“’Course I did! It’s just…” Yamcha shifts his weight and rubs the back of his neck, offering a lopsided, boyish smile that nearly sends Frieza’s icebound heart into a tailspin. “I already had most of that stuff figured out, y’know? We might not spend much time together, but my friends’ve told me a lot about you, and even if they didn’t, you haven’t exactly made it a secret how much you hate being stuck here with us.”
Frieza’s jaw twitches, toned arms folding over an equally lean chest. At the very least, he doesn’t expect the impossible from me, he muses.
“And your point?”
“I dunno. I guess…” Yamcha bites his lip and wrings together hands that look calloused and warm. “I guess I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about, ’specially since so many of my friends got to fight alongside you in the tournament. Seventeen said your offence was crazy. He wouldn’t have been able to keep up his momentum if you weren’t there to knock down the bigger guys.”
“No, he wouldn’t have,” Frieza agrees, recalling his collaboration with the even-tempered cyborg. Of all his teammates, that young man was probably the one who vexed him the least. “I wasn’t aware he spoke of our alliance with such reverence, but I suppose that’s to be expected after indulging in the privilege of my company.”
“Exactly! I figured, what’s the harm in trying to get some of that for myself, y’feel me? And, well, I must’ve got it in my big dumb head that maybe you’d like that too, since you spend most of your time sitting around reading those books Whis got you. It really sucks being a fighter who doesn’t fight anymore.”
“Excuse you, swine!” Frieza sniffs. “You know as well as anyone that my current state of affairs has little to do with combat prowess. Having no willing challengers is not within the scope of my responsibility. Do not project your inadequacies onto me.”
As the human sputters and stumbles over his words, Frieza takes a moment to reconsider them. Presses his fingers to his lips and looks his pretty prey over once more.
“Though… if I didn’t know any better, I would say what you’re truly interested in is a close corridor-sparring match, yes?” He raises a brow. “‘See what all the fuss is about,’ as you so adequately put it?”
It brings him immense satisfaction to watch Yamcha turn a deep shade of scarlet and listen to the rattling inhale of earthling breath. Frieza chuckles, taking his cue to go on. All men are the same, whether their blood runs hot or cold.
“I’m no stranger to context clues, dear boy.” The tiny tyrant rolls his shoulders, resting his weight on one hip and allowing an impish leer to unfurl across his features. “You said it yourself — a successful pitch is not so different from landing a blow upon one’s opponent, yes? And it’s evident to me that we’re both feeling…”
His chest heaves with an abused sigh, biogem glittering under Dr. Brief’s fluorescent lights, “terribly constrained by the regulations imposed upon us.” The Emperor’s grin grows more nefarious still, relishing in the other male’s dilated pupils and full, quivering lips. He lowers his voice to a near-whisper.
“You ought to consider yourself fortunate, Yamcha, because under no other circumstances would I take pity on the likes of you.”
More satisfied than he’s felt in months, Frieza turns away.
“Now, I suggest quelling the mistress of the house lest she come barrelling in here with that domesticated monkey in tow. We shall reconvene another time.” He pauses, glancing at Yamcha over his shoulder. Searches those gold (such a garish colour) eyes for any lingering shreds of doubt, cowardice, or distrust.
Instead, a cautious optimism sparkles back at him, the kind he’d normally snuff out with a laugh and flick of his wrist.
“I won’t make you regret this, Frieza. I promise.”
It isn’t until the Ruler of Universe 7 has been left alone, reading that damned passage over and over again with a little black bundle curled at his feet, that he realizes the simpleton had called him by his birth name, royal title lying discarded among the wreckage of his old life.
His toes curl.