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Celipa soared through the air humming to herself. Occasionally she’d spot a cloud and dart through it like a knife through a pool of water to feel the condensation then break through its other side to bask in the contrast of Mesa Roja’s aggressively warm sunlight. Even the “Cloudless World” had its cumulonimbus if you searched high enough in the atmosphere.
The Saiyan’s shaggy mop of mud brown hair dazzled in the light as the dewdrops caught and fractalized the sunbeams. She wore her hair longer now than she used to, with a single braid adjacent to the crown of her skull, and one side of her head shaved to the scalp. She also wore a form fitting, sleeveless pink jumper with a hole above the ass from which a prehensile monkey tail sprouted. This she wore beneath a tank-top style piece of Saiyan armor characteristic of the low-class warrior caste in a planetary hierarchy that didn’t matter in the universe of The Crossroads.
She was on leave.
For most soldiers in The Hound’s employ there was a certain allotment of duty and service expected. As “the muscle”, however, Celipa was the exclusive exception. As long as she bashed the required skulls when the required skulls needed bashing, she was largely exempt from the tedium of everyday choring. This freed her up from big think tank time consumers like meetings of the Small Council, deeper architectural planning sessions, and administrative problem solving meetings.
Those things weren’t really her style, anyway. She liked to be there where the rubber meets the road, not in the high concept planning sessions that meant about sweet fuck-all to her.
It had always been that way, from her early days in Civil Unrest – the alliance of warriors she belonged to a universe and half a lifetime away in North Quadrant – right on down to The Hound’s petty fiefdom to which she was now pledged. She was good at punching the shit out of her aggressors, soaring through the air like a wingless bird, and shooting spiritual energy manifestations from her hands that went ‘pew pew’; the intricacies of maps, schemes, and plans were lost on her. When a leader needed a strong arm, they called on Celipa. When a leader needed a big brain, they avoided Celipa like a heaping pile of shit in the hallway.
She swam through the sky backwards the way one might float down a river if they held their breath. The moment was blissful nothing, just the presence of self, where all she knew was the sensation of the wind through her hair, the secure feeling of her Saiyan armor clinging to her torso with its taut yet malleable synthweave, and the dull roar of air pressure deafening out nearly all other noises.
All other noises aside from the sudden beep-boop of an alert coming across the intercom of her earpiece. Cel’s eyes snapped open.
The scouter was one of those few things that remained to her from the old days. Somehow the Tsufuru-jin technology that had gone into the development of this old, old device had withstood not only the test of time but also the transference of dimensions; it still retained its programmed functions through the miracle of science: an ability to detect the distance and power level of outside entities within a radius unknown to her, a communications intercom that interfaced with an over-the-ear shell designed for comfort and ease of access, and a stylish rose-quartz lens held over the eye by a thin metal arm that allowed the user to conveniently observe the UI in semi-transparency.
In this way the device was not an inhibition to the user. It was, in fact, part of the standard training protocol on her homeworld of Vegeta to learn to fight with the scouter as an enhancement to the natural senses. A Saiyan who fought in conjunction with their scouter would never be surprised by a standard ambush. Only those practiced in the art of ki suppression could circumvent that boon.
A series of numbers danced across her heads-up display informing her that the scouter’s heads-up-display had just detected a new power in range. Far below and off to the North-West there was a slow-moving entity bearing a combat rating of nearly three thousand.
Cel’s eyes glimmered. She dropped out of the sky, accumulating an aura as she went until she was a streak of pink with a shimmering white atmosphere. The brawny comet of Celipa hurtled towards her target at eye watering speed until a speck looming in the distance grew into a discernable shape rapidly. So quickly was she moving that the ground beneath her was a tan blur. She clenched her fists at her sides and observed in stark relief the outline of a massive centipede with an interlocked back plate for an exoskeleton and more legs than a fifty person orgy in a Karim whorehouse.
Gathering momentum, Celipa tapped into her inner ki reserves. Her aura flared red. Her speed increased, suddenly, until she was twice as fast as she had been. With the power and momentum of a freight train, she punched through the midsection of the rearing giant centipede. It screamed in shock, writhing.
In a mushroom of blood, viscera, and exoskeleton shrapnel, the Saiyan burst from the back plating of the beast. She stopped so suddenly in mid-air that the immediate break in inertia shed her outer coating of gore, and spattered a bloody Jackson Pollack painting across the thirsty surface of Mesa Roja’s desert.
Behind her the massive rope of stunned centipede collapsed against the ground with a tremor, twitching.
Celipa grinned a toothy grin and hovered over to the creature’s head where she landed and seized on its massive mandibles, one in each calloused hand, then yanked them free with a grunt.
“These’ll fetch a pretty penny!” she declared, basking in self-satisfaction. “Maybe I’ll sell this one, and make a spear out of this one.”
She felt the tip of the disembodied mandible contemplatively.
“Impressive,” boomed a deep voice from behind her.
Celipa whipped around, stanced up menacingly with a mandible in each hand like a dagger, and glanced at her scouter.
Despite no alerts there was a massive boulder of a man nearly thirty feet away from her, arms crossed, silent as the grave. He wore a plume of black hair in a swept back series of unwashed locks, and regarded her with coal black eyes. The man donned blue armor with extended pauldrons and sizable greaves. Around his waist there was a monkey’s tail, wrapped tightly, just like Celipa’s own.
She sucked in a quick breath, surprised. When was the last time she’d seen another Saiyan? Not since North Quadrant.
“Power suppression,” she growled, her hackles raised and eyes narrowed. “You know, it’s not kind to sneak up on a lady.”
She thrust one of her massive centipede mandibles forward. Menacingly.
“Who are you?” Celipa demanded, thin lips taut, face wary. “You better spill it. Fast. Or else I spill you.”
The Saiyan’s shaggy mop of mud brown hair dazzled in the light as the dewdrops caught and fractalized the sunbeams. She wore her hair longer now than she used to, with a single braid adjacent to the crown of her skull, and one side of her head shaved to the scalp. She also wore a form fitting, sleeveless pink jumper with a hole above the ass from which a prehensile monkey tail sprouted. This she wore beneath a tank-top style piece of Saiyan armor characteristic of the low-class warrior caste in a planetary hierarchy that didn’t matter in the universe of The Crossroads.
She was on leave.
For most soldiers in The Hound’s employ there was a certain allotment of duty and service expected. As “the muscle”, however, Celipa was the exclusive exception. As long as she bashed the required skulls when the required skulls needed bashing, she was largely exempt from the tedium of everyday choring. This freed her up from big think tank time consumers like meetings of the Small Council, deeper architectural planning sessions, and administrative problem solving meetings.
Those things weren’t really her style, anyway. She liked to be there where the rubber meets the road, not in the high concept planning sessions that meant about sweet fuck-all to her.
It had always been that way, from her early days in Civil Unrest – the alliance of warriors she belonged to a universe and half a lifetime away in North Quadrant – right on down to The Hound’s petty fiefdom to which she was now pledged. She was good at punching the shit out of her aggressors, soaring through the air like a wingless bird, and shooting spiritual energy manifestations from her hands that went ‘pew pew’; the intricacies of maps, schemes, and plans were lost on her. When a leader needed a strong arm, they called on Celipa. When a leader needed a big brain, they avoided Celipa like a heaping pile of shit in the hallway.
She swam through the sky backwards the way one might float down a river if they held their breath. The moment was blissful nothing, just the presence of self, where all she knew was the sensation of the wind through her hair, the secure feeling of her Saiyan armor clinging to her torso with its taut yet malleable synthweave, and the dull roar of air pressure deafening out nearly all other noises.
All other noises aside from the sudden beep-boop of an alert coming across the intercom of her earpiece. Cel’s eyes snapped open.
The scouter was one of those few things that remained to her from the old days. Somehow the Tsufuru-jin technology that had gone into the development of this old, old device had withstood not only the test of time but also the transference of dimensions; it still retained its programmed functions through the miracle of science: an ability to detect the distance and power level of outside entities within a radius unknown to her, a communications intercom that interfaced with an over-the-ear shell designed for comfort and ease of access, and a stylish rose-quartz lens held over the eye by a thin metal arm that allowed the user to conveniently observe the UI in semi-transparency.
In this way the device was not an inhibition to the user. It was, in fact, part of the standard training protocol on her homeworld of Vegeta to learn to fight with the scouter as an enhancement to the natural senses. A Saiyan who fought in conjunction with their scouter would never be surprised by a standard ambush. Only those practiced in the art of ki suppression could circumvent that boon.
A series of numbers danced across her heads-up display informing her that the scouter’s heads-up-display had just detected a new power in range. Far below and off to the North-West there was a slow-moving entity bearing a combat rating of nearly three thousand.
Cel’s eyes glimmered. She dropped out of the sky, accumulating an aura as she went until she was a streak of pink with a shimmering white atmosphere. The brawny comet of Celipa hurtled towards her target at eye watering speed until a speck looming in the distance grew into a discernable shape rapidly. So quickly was she moving that the ground beneath her was a tan blur. She clenched her fists at her sides and observed in stark relief the outline of a massive centipede with an interlocked back plate for an exoskeleton and more legs than a fifty person orgy in a Karim whorehouse.
Gathering momentum, Celipa tapped into her inner ki reserves. Her aura flared red. Her speed increased, suddenly, until she was twice as fast as she had been. With the power and momentum of a freight train, she punched through the midsection of the rearing giant centipede. It screamed in shock, writhing.
In a mushroom of blood, viscera, and exoskeleton shrapnel, the Saiyan burst from the back plating of the beast. She stopped so suddenly in mid-air that the immediate break in inertia shed her outer coating of gore, and spattered a bloody Jackson Pollack painting across the thirsty surface of Mesa Roja’s desert.
Behind her the massive rope of stunned centipede collapsed against the ground with a tremor, twitching.
Celipa grinned a toothy grin and hovered over to the creature’s head where she landed and seized on its massive mandibles, one in each calloused hand, then yanked them free with a grunt.
“These’ll fetch a pretty penny!” she declared, basking in self-satisfaction. “Maybe I’ll sell this one, and make a spear out of this one.”
She felt the tip of the disembodied mandible contemplatively.
“Impressive,” boomed a deep voice from behind her.
Celipa whipped around, stanced up menacingly with a mandible in each hand like a dagger, and glanced at her scouter.
Despite no alerts there was a massive boulder of a man nearly thirty feet away from her, arms crossed, silent as the grave. He wore a plume of black hair in a swept back series of unwashed locks, and regarded her with coal black eyes. The man donned blue armor with extended pauldrons and sizable greaves. Around his waist there was a monkey’s tail, wrapped tightly, just like Celipa’s own.
She sucked in a quick breath, surprised. When was the last time she’d seen another Saiyan? Not since North Quadrant.
“Power suppression,” she growled, her hackles raised and eyes narrowed. “You know, it’s not kind to sneak up on a lady.”
She thrust one of her massive centipede mandibles forward. Menacingly.
“Who are you?” Celipa demanded, thin lips taut, face wary. “You better spill it. Fast. Or else I spill you.”