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Chapter Text

The stars shimmered around Planet Vegeta, casting a red hue over its turbulent surface. From orbit, it looked peaceful – regal, even – unaware of the end looming just beyond its atmosphere.

Cooler sat back in his throne aboard his command ship, legs crossed, a glass of chilled wine in hand, watching the image of Planet Vegeta hanging in the blackness like a dying ember.

“Still no resistance?” Cooler asked, voice as cold and effortless as the vacuum outside.

Salza, standing to his left with arms crossed behind his back, did not look up from his scouter. “No, sir. The Saiyans are either too proud to run or too stupid to realize what's happening.”

Cooler offered the faintest curl of a smirk. “How very like them.”

On the main screen, Frieza’s hover pod emerged from the belly of his personal ship – a shining point of white and purple drifting into the void. From his hand, a single orb of energy began to swell – glowing red and seething with coiled power.

The Supernova.

“It’s always a performance with him,” Cooler said, sipping from a crystal chalice. “He can’t simply kill. He has to make a show of it.”

Dore snorted from the weapons terminal. “He’s wiping out an entire species. That deserves a little flair, doesn’t it?”

Cooler’s red eyes narrowed. “He’s wiping out a liability. The Saiyans were useful once. Now, they’re dangerous. Messy.”

Salza's scouter pinged sharply.

“Lord Cooler – we’ve detected a pod. Small, Class-1. Launched from the western hemisphere of the planet, just seconds ago.”

Cooler turned slightly. “A survivor?”

“Possibly. Single lifeform aboard. Infant power signature.”

On screen, a faint glimmer streaked away from the planet’s surface like a falling star in reverse – a Saiyan spacepod, escaping the atmosphere.

Dore cracked his knuckles. “Want me to blow it out of the sky?”

Cooler raised a hand.

“No. Stand down.”

The others looked at him in mild confusion. Even Salza arched an eyebrow.

“Sir?”

Cooler stood, glass forgotten as he approached the main viewport. He stared at the fleeing pod – a speck of gray metal slipping between stars, unnoticed by Frieza, who was too busy laughing.

“Frieza will destroy the planet, yes. But that doesn’t mean every ember must be snuffed. Frieza’s pride is to destroy the Saiyans. My pride,” he said, voice silken with amusement, “is to do what he never considered.”

He turned, slowly, red eyes glowing.

“Intercept the pod. Bring it aboard.”

Salza hesitated. “Frieza gave strict orders. No survivors.”

Cooler’s voice darkened to a razor’s edge. “Frieza gave himself orders. He said nothing to me.”

The command deck fell into silence.

Then Salza nodded. “Understood.”

Cooler turned back to the viewport just in time to see the Supernova fall.

It descended slowly – almost lazily – before finally crashing into the planet like a fist through glass.

Planet Vegeta shattered, its surface splitting in a flash of white light and fire, fragments and atmosphere tearing away in a sphere of silent annihilation.

From orbit, it was beautiful.

The pod landed in Hangar Bay 7 an hour later with a hiss of steam.

Scans showed no signs of external damage. Primitive design, but resilient – typical of Saiyan practicality. The outer shell slid open with a mechanical whine, releasing a hiss of recycled air and faint traces of dust.

Inside, curled against the padded core, was a child.

A girl.

No more than two years old.

Her hair was impossibly long for her age – black, thick, wild, and trailing past her shoulders in waves, reaching her hips. Her tail was wrapped tightly around her bare leg like a lifeline. She clutched a tattered blanket to her chest, eyes closed, fast asleep.

Cooler stepped forward, silent.

She stirred.

Then opened her eyes.

Black. Deep. Still. Like obsidian.

She stared at him with wide eyes.

Did not cry. Did not flinch. Did not move.

Cooler tilted his head slightly, intrigued as he leaned over the edge of the open pod, observing her. “Not even a whimper,” he murmured. “Fascinating.”

He reached out and gently tapped the scouter clamped to his ear.

“Salza.”

A moment later, the blue-skinned officer entered, flanked by two armed elites.

“Take care of her.”

“What?” Salza’s voice carried his disbelief.

Cooler’s tail twitched behind him, his voice was cutting like ice. “Did I stutter?”

“No, my lord.” Salza crossed his arm in front of his chest and bowed deeply.

Hours later, they had cleaned her. Clothed her in a standard-issue black undersuit too big for her limbs. Cooler had ordered no armor. No insignia. She was not a soldier. Not yet.

Salza stood beside his master in the observation chamber as the child sat, legs tucked under her, on the cold steel floor. A bowl of rehydrated nutrient paste sat untouched beside her. She had not moved in nearly an hour.

“She hasn’t spoken,” Salza reported.

Cooler stepped forward. “Of course not. She knows nothing of where she is. Who she is. Her mind is a tabula rasa. Untouched. Untethered.”

“Shall I run biological scans?”

Cooler waved him off. “Pointless. She's Saiyan. That much is clear.”

He stood directly in front of the girl, gazing down at her like one might study a weapon forged in secret.

“You’re lucky, you know,” he said softly, a mockery of kindness in his tone. “Your kind screamed as they died. Clung to their pride like armor. But what did it earn them? Extinction.”

Her eyes flicked up. No emotion. Just observation.

“You have no name, do you? No rank. No memory. Just instinct.” He crouched, bringing his face close to hers. “Good.”

He reached out. Slowly, his hand brushed one long lock of hair behind her ear.

“You will not remember Vegeta. You will not remember your blood. You will know only what I give you.”

She blinked. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came.

“I’ll give you a new name,” he whispered.

He stood, tail flicking once more as he turned toward Salza.

“Shiva,” he said. “It’s fitting. Cold. Efficient. And one day, she will send entire planets into shivers.”

Salza hesitated. “Do you plan to train her?”

Cooler turned his eyes back toward the chamber. The girl had turned her head slightly, watching his every move.

“No. I plan to unmake her.”

Salza frowned.

A thin smile touched Cooler’s lips.

A week had passed, when the crew started speaking in whispers.

“Cooler has a child?”

“No – a project. A pet. A weapon.”

“A Saiyan girl. Barely old enough to walk. Never speaks.”

“Creepy little thing. Just stares at you.”

“Cooler calls her Shiva.”

The girl still had not spoken. But she watched.

Everything.

The lights. The soldiers. The way Cooler moved, and how the others flinched when he passed. She watched with the detachment of a hawk circling a battlefield – no comprehension, no judgment, only awareness.

She ate when ordered. Stood when commanded.

When Cooler entered her chamber, she rose to her feet on her own.

“Good,” he murmured.

She responded with silence.

He snapped his fingers. A low-ranking grunt stepped forward, holding a spherical shock-training device the size of a melon.

Cooler took it and crouched down, holding it before the girl.

“Strike it.”

The girl tilted her head.

He activated the device – it hovered, letting out a soft electric pulse.

“Strike. It.”

She looked from him to the orb – then launched a clumsy punch.

The orb drifted aside effortlessly.

“Again.”

She tried.

Again.

And again.

Each time, it evaded her. It was a training tool for basic soldiers, designed to mock their timing and precision. But her eyes narrowed. Her feet shifted. She stopped punching wildly and began to calculate.

On the ninth attempt, she caught it mid-drift and crushed it in her hand.

Sparks flickered.

Then silence.

Cooler’s smile was thin. Razor-sharp.

“Good.”

She released the broken orb and stared at him, chest rising with small, controlled breaths.

Not joy. Not pride. Just focus.

Cooler knelt again, placing a single hand on the girl’s head. Her hair tangled through his fingers like threads of ink.

“This one won’t scream like the others. She won’t rebel. She’ll be made cold. Made clean.”

He stood again, glancing at Salza.

“Condition her. Begin with physical drills. Stimulate aggression. No language training.”

Salza raised an eyebrow. “And when she starts speaking on her own?”

“She won’t. Not until I say so.”

At night, Shiva sat in the corner of her private cell.

No lights. No sound. Just the stars outside the small viewport – a thousand specks of frozen light scattered across the dark.

She watched them in silence.

Her tail swayed once, slowly.

Something in her small chest ached – not pain, not fear – just a vague, empty pull. A wordless longing. She did not understand it. But it was there.

A faint memory.

A soft voice.

A touch on her head.

Then silence.

And Shiva closed her eyes.

Chapter Text

The first time she bled, no one reacted.

Her small fist slammed into the training drone’s armored frame. A crack formed in her knuckles. A sliver of skin peeled. Blood ran freely down her wrist, a bright red line trailing onto the floor beneath her bare feet. It hurt, but the sensation was distant, like something happening to someone else.

Above her, the drone hummed.

Its central lens flashed once in warning before it shot a low-powered blast, fast and searing. She tried to dodge, but she was too slow. The blast clipped her side and knocked her across the room.

No one called for a stop. No one rushed in.

Her cheek hit the cold metal floor. She blinked once. Her muscles spasmed, the air leaving her lungs in a sharp wheeze. The pain lit up her nerves – but her lips stayed sealed.

She pushed herself up again.

In the darkened observation chamber above the training room, Cooler leaned back in his hover seat, eyes half-lidded.

“She didn’t scream,” Salza observed, arms folded behind his back.

Cooler’s voice was low and pleased. “She doesn’t need to. A dog doesn't yelp unless it breaks.”

Down below, the girl dragged herself to her feet once more. She did not know her name. Not the real one. That had been erased along with the rest of the life she had never been allowed to live. The only name she listened to now was Shiva.

The drone reactivated and floated back into its offensive stance. Its energy capacitors clicked audibly, then began charging for another strike.

“Again,” came the voice through the intercom.

She charged.

Her training changed week to week. There were no explanations. No encouragement. Just objectives. Just pain.

One day she was forced to outrun fully armed pursuit drones through a maze-like corridor system filled with motion sensors and low-voltage shock fields. Another, she was locked in a darkened chamber for hours, her senses deprived, and forced to rely on instinct to detect surprise attacks from stealth bots.

They called it reactive combat conditioning.

She did not know what the words meant. She only knew the goal: endure. Survive. Strike back.

At times, they would equip her with gauntlets that suppressed her ki output. The weights were not mechanical – they were containment tools, meant to choke off the natural energy flow in her body. She was taught to fight without relying on power. Pure physical motion. Pure muscle memory. Cooler believed brute strength was worthless without discipline.

And she was always watched. Even when she slept.

More soldiers on Cooler’s ship had started whispering about her. They did not speak openly – not if they valued their limbs – but the rumors grew like frost across the hull.

“That Saiyan girl,” someone muttered near a supply dock. “Cooler keeps her in the underdecks.”

“I heard she cracked the skull of a Gamma Elite last week. Bare-handed.”

“She doesn’t talk. Doesn’t even blink. Like a ghost.”

“She’s not a person. She’s a project.”

They called her the Ice Hound behind her back. Cooler’s pet. His trophy. His blade-in-progress.

But Shiva did not know about any of that. Her world consisted of empty corridors, cold steel, ki flashes, and silence.

She had no mirrors in her quarters. She had not seen her own face in years. She only saw her reflection when the walls caught her silhouette mid-strike, blurred by light and motion.

She did not cry. Not because she was strong. Because no one had ever taught her how.

When she slept, sometimes faint images would come – flashes of a round face with kind eyes, a hand on her hair, the warmth of breath against her forehead.

She would wake up feeling hollow and angry.

She never remembered the face.

Cooler visited occasionally. Never to speak directly with her. Only to observe.

Once, she fought three drone soldiers at once, all armed with energy batons set to lethal voltage. She broke the arm of one, dodged the others, and shattered a visor with the heel of her foot.

Her left side was badly burned by the end of the match. She could not stand up straight.

Cooler looked mildly impressed.

“She doesn’t fight like a Saiyan,” Salza noted, reviewing the vitals readout.

“She doesn’t need to,” Cooler replied. “Saiyans rely on impulse. Arrogance. Rage. I’ve trained that out of her.”

“Completely?”

Cooler watched as Shiva slowly, methodically, disarmed the last drone and drove her elbow into its control module. Sparks showered the floor.

“Not completely. There’s still something inside her. A flicker.”

He paused.

“That’s what I want.”

Later, they tested her pain threshold by subjecting her to cold compression chambers. No fire. No torture devices. Just ice. Stillness. She was locked inside an isolated cryo-pod set barely above freezing, left there for hours at a time in silence. Her heartbeat slowed. Her ki dimmed. She never called out.

Cooler named that session Null-State Conditioning. He believed it would hone her ability to remain still under pressure – to mask her power when needed. To become invisible until the moment she struck.

When she emerged, shivering, her lips were blue and her eyes half-lidded. But she was conscious.

That night, she scratched a symbol into the wall of her bunk with her fingernail. It was a simple, slightly curved cross. She did not know why she drew it. It did not look like any mark she had seen on this ship.

It made her chest ache when she stared at it too long.

There were no answers.

Just drills. Tests. Surveillance.

At one point, she was introduced to a new type of training: combat against live targets. Low-level mercenaries were brought in under the pretense of evaluations. Most did not know who or what she was.

“She’s just a runt,” one scoffed, cracking his knuckles. “I’ll have her crying in a minute.”

He lasted thirty-seven seconds.

When they dragged him out, groaning, Cooler recorded the footage without a word.

“She holds back,” Salza said that evening. “Why?”

“Control,” Cooler replied. “She’s not killing because I haven’t told her to. She’s learning boundaries.”

“She’ll be dangerous.”

“That’s the idea.”

Her reputation continued to spread in hushed tones. Lower officers began whispering her name like a curse. Some called her Cooler’s secret weapon. Others said she was not even Saiyan – just a clone grown from salvaged DNA. No one could agree or disagree.

The rumors reached more prominent ears.

One day, while Nappa and Raditz waited on Frieza's command ship for new deployment orders, the latter glanced at a data scroll that had been passed around among lower-ranking patrols.

“Cooler’s been hiding something,” Raditz muttered, narrowing his eyes. “Rumors say he’s training a… Saiyan.”

Nappa scoffed. “Impossible. We’re the last.”

“Unless he found a straggler.”

Nappa crossed his arms. “Even if he did, it’d just be some half-dead infant or a useless outcast.”

Raditz shrugged. “Supposedly, it’s a girl. Been fighting Cooler’s elites since she was a child. They say she doesn’t talk. Just breaks things.”

Nappa looked unconvinced. “Cooler wouldn’t waste his time.”

Raditz looked again at the scouter logs. “You ever hear of a Saiyan named ‘Shiva’?”

Nappa frowned. “No. But maybe Vegeta has.”

The name stuck with them longer than either expected.

Chapter Text

Shiva’s hair always moved like smoke behind her – long, wavy, and impossible to tame. It fell to her hips, wild from the moment she was born, and Cooler had never once instructed her to cut it. He did not care about appearances. He cared about results.

The rest of her body, however, was changing.

She had grown taller, leaner. The flat lines of her frame had sharpened, molded by years of rigorous conditioning into something efficient. Her movements carried a coiled fluidity now – not just the brutal stiffness of a weapon, but something deeper, more balanced. Her eyes had grown darker too. Still wide, still quiet, but now holding weight.

And others had started to notice.

Not the observation droids. Not the AI analysts that tracked her ki or the sparring drones she destroyed in silence.

No – the soldiers.

She had seen it weeks ago. How the glances lingered when she walked past the mess hall or entered a debriefing chamber. Some tried to speak to her now – clumsy attempts at charm, bravado, or base suggestions.

“She’s Cooler’s little project,” one technician muttered to a squad mate as Shiva passed through the docking corridor. “But the way she’s filling out, might be more than just a weapon.”

“Bet she doesn’t even understand what she’s turning into.”

“She doesn’t need to. Makes her more fun to look at.”

She heard it all. She always heard more than they thought.

She did not flinch, did not glare. But her ki rippled once – just barely – and one of the light panels above them sparked and shorted. She kept walking.

The rumors, the attention, the leering – it was a new kind of pressure. And unlike everything else, she had not been trained for this. Violence, yes. Pain, yes. Submission, silence, and control – yes. But attention? Desire? The weight of other people’s gazes on her skin?

Cooler noticed.

He always noticed. Shiva’s strength was beginning to plateau, which meant it was time to broaden her capabilities. Her instincts, her discipline – unmatched. But she still could not speak fluidly, could not bluff, could not lie convincingly. That would not do for field missions.

So he changed her schedule.

One morning, Shiva entered the training deck expecting solo combat drills. Instead, she was greeted by a unit of seven soldiers – all older, all male, all veterans of Cooler’s various planetary campaigns.

Cooler’s voice echoed through the intercom above:

“You will train with them. Squad formation, coordinated response, field dialogue. Learn their language. Learn their minds.”

Shiva said nothing.

One of the soldiers – a broad-shouldered brute with a scouter patched over one eye – grinned. “She’s the one everyone whispers about?”

Another laughed. “Looks more like a sculpture than a soldier.”

The smirk turned into a sneer. “Does she talk? Or is she just pretty when she bleeds?”

The first sparring session ended with two broken ribs, a broken nose, and a lot of wounded pride. Shiva did not draw blood on purpose. But she also did not hold back.

Cooler did not discipline her. If anything, he was satisfied. She had begun asserting control over her space – a primitive social dominance. Still, physical power was not enough.

Over the next several weeks, Shiva was drilled not in martial precision, but in something far stranger: conversation.

Verbal codes. Mission lingo. Deception protocols. Non-lethal restraint tactics. Identity falsification.

She stumbled at first. Her voice was gravelly from disuse, short and flat, without inflection. She did not understand the rhythms of speech – when to pause, when to lie, when to provoke. But she learned quickly. Her mind had always adapted under pressure. Social patterns became just another combat form.

She noticed the subtle glances of her male squad mates too – most thought she did not. One leered too long during a locker room debrief. She met his gaze, unblinking, and he flinched first.

The next day, her uniform was updated – slight plating added to her sides and chest. Cooler was not protecting her. He was reinforcing the frame.

She belonged to him, and no one else.

Elsewhere, beyond the reach of Cooler’s command, Vegeta leaned on a data console inside Frieza’s command vessel, scanning intercepted transmissions with narrowed eyes.

Raditz hovered nearby, flipping through a scouter report. “Shiva. That’s what she’s called.”

Vegeta did not respond.

“I managed to pull the deployment logs from one of Cooler’s purged sectors,” Raditz went on. “She was seen leading a black ops assault on a rebel cell. No backup. No survivors.”

“Visuals?”

Raditz handed him the screen. Grainy footage, but clear enough. A figure with long black hair flowed across the screen like liquid shadow, energy crackling faintly around her limbs as she landed a spinning kick into a towering bio-augmented soldier.

“She’s small,” Vegeta said. “But fast.”

“Power’s masked half the time. Most sensors can’t get a consistent read.”

Vegeta leaned closer. The way she moved – her strikes were swift, economical. Precise. “Cooler’s training her as a specialist.” His eyes narrowed at the tail trailing behind her.

“Not just that,” Raditz said. “He’s grooming her.”

Vegeta’s eyes sharpened. “Grooming?”

“Not in that way,” Raditz said quickly, aware of the edge in his prince’s tone. “I mean as a tool. A prototype. Maybe a replacement.”

Vegeta straightened. “Replacement for what?”

“Cooler doesn’t trust Frieza anymore. You know that. Everyone does. He wants a weapon he owns – one he can point at anyone, even his own brother.”

Vegeta stared at the still image.

A Saiyan. Raised in silence. Hidden. Sculpted into a living shadow. She was like a ghost of their people – the part that should have burned with the planet, and yet somehow, impossibly, endured.

“How old is she?” he asked.

“There are no birth logs, no entry into the Cold Force database recorded. Just started appearing. But she appears to be in her teens, maybe 15 years old.”

His scowl deepened. “Too young for this kind of precision. She must have been fighting since infancy.”

If Cooler had pulled her from the wreckage of Planet Vegeta – and had kept her for himself – it would explain everything.

Raditz nodded. “That’s what the whispers say.”

Vegeta closed the feed. “Then it’s true.”

“What is?”

“She’s not just a Saiyan.” His voice lowered. “She’s Cooler’s attempt to make a better one.”

Raditz glanced down at the data-pad again, then back up at Vegeta. “If she’s out there, growing stronger every day, what does that mean for us? For the Saiyans who remain?”

Vegeta’s eyes burned with a fierce intensity. “It means we have to find her. Not as enemies, but as kin.”

“Even if she’s loyal to Cooler?”

Vegeta’s laugh was bitter. “Loyalty bred from fear is not loyalty at all. We’ll see what she truly is when the time comes.”

Raditz’s scouter beeped with incoming reports, but the two Saiyans remained still, preparing to face a future where the lines between enemy and kin were blurred.

Back on Cooler’s ship, Shiva sat on her bunk, one knee pulled to her chest, arms wrapped loosely around it. Her room was dim – always dim – but the faint blue light from the hall gave enough to cast her shadow on the wall.

She did not know what she was feeling. The voices of the others still echoed in her head, not just their words but their tones. Their interest. Their tension.

She had learned every form of attack, every kind of pain. But this attention felt… different. Not a weapon. Not a strike. Something else.

Something she did not know how to guard against.

She glanced at her reflection in the polished steel panel across from her bed. Her hair fell around her like a curtain. Her face was still hers – still unchanged – but even she could see it now. There was a woman inside the lines of her jaw. Inside the stillness of her stare.

And far away, across space, someone had begun watching her back.

Someone who would soon become much more than a whisper.

Chapter Text

The dropship shuddered slightly as it broke atmosphere. Shiva sat at the rear, away from the others, her knees pulled in just enough to avoid touching the floor panel grates. She kept her arms folded and her gaze distant, but she felt every eye on her. Always.

There were four soldiers with her. Cooler's men – elite enough to accompany her, but not trusted enough to be left alone with her. She was not part of them. Not really. She was Cooler's private project, his personal blade sheathed in a girl's body.

A particularly loud exhale drew her attention. Tharn, the loudest of the four, was already smirking at her.

"So," he said, crossing his arms behind his head, "the hound gets off her leash?"

Shiva did not react. Her eyes remained locked on the interior bulkhead.

Tharn leaned forward, cocking his head. "She doesn't talk much, huh? Maybe Lord Cooler had her tongue cut out."

"Leave it," one of the others muttered, not looking up from his scouter.

"She's not mute," said another. "She just thinks she's better than us."

Tharn chuckled. "Not better. Just weird. Pretty face, all that hair, no personality. You sure she's not just a doll?"

Still nothing.

Shiva's gaze had not shifted. But her hands were no longer folded.

Tharn's scouter blinked rapidly, tried to read her energy, and failed – a shrill beep before the lens cracked with a small snap. He flicked it away with a grunt.

"Ten seconds to drop," came the pilot's voice from the comm system.

Tharn made a kissy noise and leaned back. "Maybe we'll see what she can really do."

Shiva stood without a sound.

The atmosphere shifted.

Even the other soldiers sat straighter.

Her hair moved behind her like ink in water, almost alive in the stale ship air. She did not look at any of them. But her presence – cold, quiet, coiled – was enough to silence the cabin.

The ship's door opened with a low hiss.

Shiva moved first – and jumped.

The outpost was hidden in a ravine, wrapped in layers of shielding and false topography. Once a smuggler's den, now a defiant rebel base refusing to pay tribute to the Empire. Salza had briefed her. Cooler had assigned her.

"It's a live kill order," Salza had said, voice detached. "No backup. No witnesses."

She entered alone.

Her breath synced with the pulse in her ears. She moved through the perimeter like a ghost. The first guard did not know he was dying. The second reached for a communicator and fell before his fingers touched the button. She broke bones, nerves, necks. No wasted energy. No blood.

Like she had been taught.

No bursts of rage. No roars of dominance.

Just clean, clinical execution.

By the time she reached the command center, her heart had not sped up once.

The leader inside was already standing – noticing something, maybe, or alerted by some psychic echo of death. A broad-shouldered alien with rust-colored skin and four eyes, he reached for a weapon.

Shiva did not speak.

A soft pulse lit her palm. Not a ki blast – not quite. It was Cooler's technique, or a version of it. Focused, silent. The moment her hand lifted, the rebel vanished. Disintegrated. No bones. No scream. Just dust.

Mission complete.

Then she heard a sound.

Tiny. A breath caught behind a door.

She turned, her senses expanding in a ripple.

There – a crack between wall panels. A child. Big eyes. Thin frame. A small boy, just tall enough to reach her waist.

They stared at each other.

Shiva did not raise her hand.

The boy did not scream.

She could hear his heartbeat – fast, erratic. He trembled, just slightly.

Her own breath caught. She did not know why.

She turned away and walked out without a word.

The ride back was silent at first.

The soldiers sat in uneasy quiet. Until Tharn broke it, as always.

"Heard you left someone breathing."

Shiva did not look at him.

Tharn chuckled. "That's what the report says. Clean sweep – except no mention of collateral. Soft spot for kids, huh? Or maybe you got lazy?"

She still said nothing.

"You think you're different," he continued. "But you're not. You bleed like the rest of us. You'll break like the rest of us."

Another soldier snorted, but did not intervene.

Tharn leaned forward, voice dropping. "You're just his little pet project. Something to parade. A failed experiment in a pretty skin."

She moved without sound.

In an instant, Tharn was on the floor, choking against the ship's paneling. Shiva knelt beside him, her hand pressing just behind his ear – not enough to kill, just enough to paralyze.

"I'm not a project," she whispered.

Her voice was soft. Steady. The first sound she had made all day.

"If I were a failure," she added, "you'd be dead already."

She stood.

No one else spoke for the rest of the trip.

Salza reviewed the footage in the surveillance chamber. The mission was textbook – efficient. The soldiers had performed adequately, but his focus was on Shiva's solo feed. He replayed the final kill. Then paused on the moment she turned from the child.

Cooler stepped beside him.

"You saw?" Salza asked.

"I did."

"She hesitated."

"She chose," Cooler said.

"Isn't that dangerous?"

Cooler did not answer at first. He simply watched the screen.

"She's not an animal," he said eventually. "Not anymore. She's learning to discern."

Salza folded his arms. "Even so. If Frieza hears of this–"

"He won't," Cooler replied calmly. "And if he does, he'll see what I see."

He turned, hands clasped behind his back.

"She's more than a Saiyan. More than one of us. In time, she'll see it too."

Chapter Text

The footage looped again. Vegeta said nothing.

Shiva’s form moved across the monitor like liquid fire. She was not flaring her ki, nor snarling like most Saiyans did in the heat of battle. Every strike was measured, economic. No wasted movement. It was the technique of someone who fought not for the thrill of it – but because she had been sculpted to.

“She’s not feral,” Vegeta muttered. “She’s cold.”

Raditz stood behind him with his arms folded, watching the grainy playback flicker. “That’s not how we fight. Cooler’s bled the Saiyan out of her.”

“No,” Vegeta said flatly, “Cooler sharpened her.”

He did not take his eyes off the screen. Something inside him twisted at the sight of her. Not discomfort, exactly – something more primitive. Recognition. As if some echo of his bloodline stirred at the sight of her movements, her poise, the raw efficiency that should not have belonged to a girl raised among enemies.

“She’s grown,” Raditz said. “I heard her power level’s close to twenty-five thousand now. That’s not a fluke. Cooler’s been training her hard.”

The screen showed her standing still over a collapsed target. Smoke billowed in the background. Her hair – still impossibly wild – fell like a black banner around her. There was something ghostly about it, the way she stood in silence, as if untouched by the carnage behind her.

Raditz frowned. “Frieza’s bound to notice. If she keeps growing like this–”

“Then she becomes a threat to both of them,” Vegeta said, turning away. “Which means she’s a problem. Or an opportunity.”

Shiva’s combat data from the last three simulations showed a disturbing trend – not because she was struggling, but because she was not. She was dismantling every scenario, every artificial opponent, without strain. Without aggression.

Efficiency had become her nature.

Too efficient.

Cooler leaned back in the command chair, arms crossed in front of his chest. His tail flicked once against the floor, a silent punctuation to his thought.

Across the room, Salza stood by the console, arms folded behind his back. “Her power has stabilized at just over twenty-eight thousand,” he said. “There’s also been a noticeable shift in her technique. She’s stopped relying on raw impact.”

“She’s learning.” Cooler’s voice was unreadable.

“Her last opponent failed to land a single blow.”

Cooler turned slightly, eyes narrowing toward the darkened surveillance feed. Shiva stood at the edge of the arena, motionless, chest rising with slow precision. She had not even looked winded.

“I think it’s time I train her myself,” he said.

Salza raised a brow. “Personally?”

Cooler did not repeat himself.

Shiva’s knuckles were bruised again.

The training droids did not adapt fast enough. Cooler’s simulations were complex, advanced, but repetitive. She already predicted every move. Now they shattered on impact, unable to hold up against her precision.

The training deck hissed as the final drone fell in pieces.

A siren chirped – a gentle reminder that her session was complete. She exhaled slowly and exited the chamber. Her armor was cracked down the right flank, another clean break. She did not report it. Someone else would notice and replace it by the next morning.

She walked the steel corridors silently. A few soldiers passed by. Most looked away. One or two stared too long. She did not return the glances. Cooler’s men had long since stopped trying to speak to her, unless required. Still, the tension clung to her like heat.

She entered the shower unit. The chamber was industrial – no steam, no comfort. Just a stall, steel fixtures, and recycled water. She peeled the armor from her skin with mechanical ease, tossed it into the disposal hatch, and stepped under the freezing water.

The cold did not bite anymore. Not like it used to. Her nerves barely reacted.

She closed her eyes.

Then heard the door hiss behind her.

She did not move – not yet. The person behind her tried to move silently, but could not mask his presence.

A soldier. Male. She did not recognize him, but the rhythm was familiar: overconfident, pulsing with adrenaline, and tainted with arrogance.

“You don’t even lock it?” he said, voice coated in fake charm. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

She did not turn.

“I mean, not that I mind. Training that hard, you must be tense. Stressed. Maybe you need help… unwinding.”

He took a step forward.

The water still fell over her.

Another step.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he whispered. “You’ve got power, sure – but power doesn’t make you untouchable.”

His hand moved. Reached for her bare shoulder.

The next second, his hand never touched her.

Her elbow slammed back into his solar plexus, crushing his ribs with the sound of a small explosion. Before he could double over, her foot whipped around – not just to strike, but to send his entire body hurling into the wall. Steel bent with the force. He dropped, wheezing, trying to scream but unable to.

She did not bother to look at him. She grabbed a towel, wrapped it around herself, and walked past him as he choked on the floor.

Blood followed her footsteps. No one else stopped her.

Cooler observed the playback in silence, fingers steepled under his chin.

The soldier was still alive. That was disappointing.

Salza stood behind him, arms folded. “Shall I discipline the survivor?”

Cooler raised a hand. “No. Let him live. Let them all hear what happened. Fear is more effective when it circulates naturally.”

Salza inclined his head.

Cooler rewound the footage. Again. His eyes stayed on the girl – the way she moved, the stillness after her attack. She did not shout. She did not show anger. She responded with precision, brutal and immediate.

Like a weapon. Like a mirror of himself.

He narrowed his eyes. She was no longer a child, that much was certain. Her face, though still soft, carried the discipline of years under command. Her body was honed, powerful. Her control was absolute – except, perhaps, in those rare moments when she let her eyes speak.

He had seen her hesitate once.

Not out of mercy. Something else.

Curiosity.

Or worse… choice.

Cooler rose from his seat and turned away from the monitor. “She’s changing.”

Salza remained still. “You sound pleased.”

“I’m interested,” Cooler said coldly. “That’s not the same.”

But in truth, it was becoming harder to ignore.

Not her strength.

Not her obedience.

But something far more dangerous.

She was starting to think.

And if a Saiyan learns how to think – really think – then she becomes something no empire wants.

Unpredictable.

Free.

Cooler stepped to the viewport, looking into the void of space. “Let her continue. I want to see where this goes.”

Salza frowned faintly. “And when Frieza finds out?”

Cooler’s expression did not change.

“Then we’ll see if she belongs to the Saiyans,” he said softly, “or to me.”

Chapter Text

Shiva moved with the grace of a predator, not a soldier.

Cooler watched her through the observation glass as she navigated the gravity chamber. Her limbs carved through the air in perfect arcs, her footfalls silent, her blows deliberate. There was nothing wild about her. No wasted energy. No savage abandon.

Not like the others of her kind.

Saiyans were creatures of fire and impulse. Frieza had always seen them that way – base, dangerous, unworthy of anything but eradication. But this one… this one had been different. Cooler had molded her from the day her pod had arrived. He had seen the raw potential buried in the toddler’s scowl, in the tension of her tiny limbs as she snarled at her first injections.

She had not cried.

Even then.

Now, years later, she had become something else entirely – not just strong, but sharp. Efficient. Her power was not accompanied by screaming or rage. It came in silence. In precision. In control.

In that way, she reminded him of himself.

Cooler’s fingers tightened slightly on the control panel.

She was an adult now. Her body had grown into its power – tall, muscular, but sleek. He had long since noticed how the other soldiers looked at her. Their glances, quick and hungry. Their footsteps lingering when she passed.

He had disciplined several for speaking to her. One, for simply standing too close.

Officially, they were reprimands for disrespecting an elite asset. Unofficially, they were warnings. And still, they did not stop.

Fools. They did not see it.

She was not theirs.

She was not even Saiyan anymore.

She was his.

Salza approached from behind, clearing his throat with the tact of one who knew better than to speak unless addressed.

“Her progress has exceeded expectations,” he said, quietly. “Again.”

Cooler’s tail flicked once, then he tapped a command into the console. The simulation ended. The lights in the chamber dimmed.

She straightened immediately, looking up toward the speaker. She did not speak. She never did. But her gaze was calm, unreadable – the gaze of someone who knew she was being studied, measured.

Judged.

Cooler opened the comm. “Stay where you are.”

A pause. Then a faint nod.

“You’ll start training her personally now?” Salza asked tentatively.

“Leave. There will be no spectators.” Cooler did not wait for a response, sure that his second-in-command would heed his order. He left the control room, silent and slow. The doors hissed behind him as he entered the corridor. His guards did not follow. He had not summoned them.

This was a private session.

When he stepped into the chamber, her back was to him, hair cascading down her back like a black waterfall. She did not flinch. She never showed fear around him – not visibly. Not unless he wanted her to.

He approached slowly, each step echoing in the chamber.

She turned to him and bowed slightly. “Lord Cooler.”

He did not acknowledge it immediately. He studied her, arms folded behind his back. Then finally, “You’ve grown stronger.”

Cooler circled her once, inspecting. Her muscles were tense beneath the training suit, shoulders squared, posture guarded. There was no tremble in her limbs. No hesitation. She was always like this – ready, braced. Waiting.

“Thank you.”

“Not praise,” he corrected, turning to face her. “Just fact. Power is expected. But power without discipline is dangerous.”

She said nothing.

Good.

“You’ve trained with the droids. You’ve trained under supervision. But your strength has reached a point where few in my army can challenge you.” He paused. “So now, it’s time I evaluate your progress personally.”

That made her blink. A flicker of something passed across her face – not surprise, but calculation. “Understood.”

The next moment, he was already on her.

She dodged the first strike – barely. The sound cracked through the chamber as his fingers sliced through empty air. Her counter came fast, a flurry of blows aimed at his flank, but he caught her wrist mid-motion and twisted, throwing her across the chamber.

She landed hard, rolled, and rebounded into a dash. Her ki flared, controlled – as always – and her body moved with practiced grace.

Cooler allowed it. Let her dance. Let her build her confidence in the illusion that this was anything more than a demonstration.

She improved with each pass. Adapted. Adjusted. But she could not match his raw force, his centuries of discipline.

And yet… her persistence thrilled him.

This was not the howling rage of a Saiyan brute. This was strategy. Precision. Determination honed razor-thin.

Her elbow came up toward his neck – fast, efficient – but he caught it again, this time twisting her arm behind her back, pinning her close.

Her breath caught for half a second, her back flush to his chest. Her hair tickled his jaw.

He did not let go.

Cooler looked down at her – hair tangled, skin flushed, chest heaving from exertion. She was still fighting, even now, in subtle ways: adjusting her weight, searching for leverage.

Beautiful.

He leaned in slightly.

“I made you,” he murmured, inhaling her scent – earthy and sweaty, but sweet. “Every piece. Every instinct. Every silence. I took your animal blood and carved something worthwhile.”

He spun her and drove her into the ground with enough force to rattle the steel plating – but not enough to break her. She coughed, grit her teeth, pushed herself up again.

Cooler’s eyes narrowed.

She did not cry out. Did not whimper. But the defiance in her movement was not gone – only coiled, simmering beneath the surface.

He approached again, slower this time.

She lashed out – ki spiked through the heel of her foot. He sidestepped it, caught her ankle mid-air, and yanked her off-balance. She collapsed, one knee down, panting harder now.

Cooler stood over her.

“You’re reaching limits you weren’t meant to surpass,” he said. “That body, that blood – you think it belongs to you?”

She met his gaze – unafraid. “I earned this strength.”

Cooler leaned down. His tail coiled slowly behind him, calm as his voice. “You earned what I allowed.”

He turned, retrieving something from the compartment near the entrance – a small device, polished black and lined with faint purple energy veins. It shimmered when it caught the light.

She watched him with wary eyes.

Cooler returned and held it up.

Shiva’s expression changed. Barely. But enough.

“You’re not putting that on me,” she said quietly.

Cooler crouched in front of her. “You’ve never disobeyed me.”

“I don’t need a collar.”

He smiled. “No. But this will bind you to me. I will always know where you are. And should your control falter… I can remind you who molded you.”

She looked at it. Then at him.

Cooler did not wait for her to speak. He stepped forward, brushing her damp hair aside with a cold hand, and fastened the collar around her neck.

Her breath hitched as the clasp sealed shut with a soft hum.

The surge of energy suppressed her ki at once, not violently – but surgically. As if a pressure descended from inside, locking her body into a lower state.

She did not flinch, but her eyes lowered.

He leaned close, voice a whisper against her ear: “You are mine. You answer to me alone.”

Cooler’s gaze never left her – cold yet possessive.

“It’s keyed to my ki,” he said. “Only I can release it. It won’t harm you. It doesn’t suppress your power. Unless I will it. You’ll still be able to train. Fight. Advance.”

Shiva looked up at him. Her pride warred with the burn in her chest – not from pain, but humiliation.

The room felt colder, smaller, the bond between master and weapon sealed not just by ki, but by something far darker.

Cooler let his hand rest against her collarbone – longer than necessary.

Then he withdrew, satisfied.

“You’ll report here again tomorrow. We begin advanced combat calibration. Alone.”

He did not wait for her response. The door hissed open, and he left without another word.

But even with his back turned, he knew – she was watching him. Not with fear.

With evaluation.

The same way he had been watching her.

And that, more than anything, made her dangerous.

Cooler retreated to his quarters, mind restless.

The girl was no longer just a weapon or a pet.

She was an obsession.

And he would keep her – no matter the cost.