My name is Cody. And up until recently, life was, to put it mildly, the fuckin' bomb. Picture this: sunshine, babes in bikinis, and me, Cody, reigning supreme as the undisputed king of the local dojo. At 24, I was basically the Bruce Lee of Buffalo, only with better hair (rugged brown, naturally) and eyes greener than a Saiyan's ki blast.
I wasn't just some meathead punching bags, though. Oh no. I was a tactical genius. I could plan a beach volleyball game with the precision of a military operation. My secret? Dragon Ball Z, baby! Goku's never-give-up attitude, Vegeta's ruthless determination, and Krillin's… well, Krillin's existence taught me the value of cannon fodder.
My days were filled with teaching wide-eyed students (mostly women, if I'm being honest) the ancient art of face-punching, followed by rigorous workouts fueled by protein shakes so thick they could clog a rhino's artery. Evenings were spent strategizing my next move in the local martial arts circuit, which was basically a bunch of dudes in pajamas trying to look intimidating. I always won, of course. My charisma alone could disarm most opponents.
And the ladies? Let's just say my winning combination of bulging biceps, philosophical rants about the power of ki, and surprisingly adept karaoke skills kept my social calendar... robust.
One day, a challenge arrived in the form of "The Mauler," a hulking, muscle-bound behemoth from out of town. He looked like he'd been carved from a particularly angry oak tree. He stomped into my dojo, spitting chewing tobacco and roaring about how he was going to become the new champion.
Now, I usually dealt with these kinds of chuckleheads with a well-placed spinning kick to the groin. But The Mauler was different. He was…bigger.
I sized him up, mentally running through my Dragon Ball Z inspired battle plan:
Assess the opponent's power level: Clearly, higher than Mr. Popo. Unleash a Kamehameha: Figuratively speaking, of course. Legally, I'm pretty sure shooting energy beams at people is frowned upon.If all else fails, exploit his weakness: Maybe he's ticklish? Scared of clowns? Has an irrational fear of interpretive dance?
The fight was scheduled for the following Saturday. I spent the week meticulously preparing, meditating on the teachings of Master Roshi (mostly the pervy parts, gotta be honest), and practicing my signature move: the "Buffalo Butt-Buster," a devastating combination of a headbutt and a dropkick that was as effective as it was ridiculous.
Saturday arrived, sweltering and sticky. The entire town crammed into the makeshift arena – a repurposed bingo hall – eager to witness the clash of titans. As I entered the ring, I felt like Goku entering the World Martial Arts Tournament. The crowd roared. I winked at a particularly attractive blonde in the front row. Life, I thought, couldn't get any better.
The Mauler lumbered in next, looking like he'd just eaten a small car. The bell rang.
He charged, a blur of fists and fury. I dodged, weaved, and countered, utilizing every ounce of my martial arts skills. I even attempted a Buffalo Butt-Buster, but he just swatted me away like a mosquito.
This guy was tough. Real tough.
Then, it happened. I saw an opening, a sliver of vulnerability. He was momentarily distracted by something in the crowd (probably the blonde I winked at), and I saw my chance. I went for it, launching myself into the air for a flying kick of potentially face-shattering proportions.
But The Mauler, bless his surprisingly quick reflexes, saw me coming. He countered with an uppercut so powerful it sent me soaring. Not just soaring, but freaking flying. I swear I saw birds scattering as I went airborne.
As I was flying through the air, I saw my life flash before my eyes...in fast forward. It was like watching a speed run of my own existence.
Then, I landed.
Not gracefully. Not heroically.
I landed headfirst, directly into a port-a-potty. A port-a-potty overflowing with…well, you get the picture.
It was instant. One minute, I was Cody, the charismatic martial artist, Dragon Ball Z aficionado, and tactical genius. The next, I was floating face-down in a sewage-filled abyss, my dreams of martial arts glory swirling around me like...well, you get the picture.
The crowd went silent. Then, a collective groan rippled through the bingo hall. The Mauler, looking genuinely horrified, mumbled something about calling 911.
And that, my friends, is how I, Cody, the top martial artist of my time, tragically died. Not in a blaze of glory, not battling an intergalactic overlord, but drowning in human waste.
The moral of the story? Always scout the battlefield for potential hazards. And maybe, just maybe, stick to clean fighting. You never know when a rogue port-a-potty might ruin your day. Or, you know, your entire life.
My first thought upon waking up was, why the hell is everything purple?
A low, mechanical hum surrounded me, and my body felt… different. Not wrong, but different. I blinked, my vision adjusting to the dim lighting of what looked like a barracks filled with aliens.A few grunts lay in metallic bunks, the entire room reeking of sweat, metal, and cheap rations.
Then, the memories hit me like a truck.
I had died. My past life—whatever it was—was gone. And now, I was here.
A soft beep in my ear startled me. I turned my head and saw a scouter attached to my face. My instincts kicked in, and I tapped the side. The screen lit up, displaying information in bold red text:
REINCARNATION COMPLETE. NEW BODY ANALYSIS: SPECIES: ZARBON'S RACE. CURRENT POWER LEVEL: 1,200. TRAINING REQUIRED.
My reflection in a nearby cracked mirror confirmed it. Cyan-blue skin, messy brown hair, and sharp green eyes that still held the same cocky confidence. I ran my fingers along my jawline. This is nuts.
"Hey, grunt!" A deep voice barked.
I turned, seeing a towering purple-skinned alien with bulky armor stomping toward me. My scouter beeped, analyzing the alien's power level: 1,500. Decent, but nothing crazy.
"You're late for training." The alien sneered. "Move it before I break your legs."
I stretched my neck, a smirk forming. I was already making enemies.
The Frieza Force didn't believe in warm-ups. The moment I stepped into the training hall—a wide, dome-like room filled with low-ranked soldiers in combat gear—the instructor pointed directly at me.
"You. New meat. Get in the ring."
I didn't have time to think. I was shoved forward, landing in a circular sparring pit. My opponent, a hulking green-skinned alien with a sadistic grin,** cracked his knuckles. Power level: 2,300.Definitely stronger than me.
But power wasn't everything.
"Hope you like pain, newbie," the alien chuckled.
My scouter flashed again, giving me more data:
RECOMMENDED STRATEGY: UTILIZE SPEED. TARGET WEAK POINTS. AVOID DIRECT CLASHES.
I grinned. Oh, this thing is gonna be useful.
The match began. The green brute charged, throwing a heavy right hook. I sidestepped, barely avoiding it as the impact cracked the floor. My body was fast, agile. My new race was naturally quick.
With a swiftness that surprised even myself, I circled the brute, dodging his slow, predictable swings. He roared, frustrated by my evasiveness. His power was vast, but raw and unrefined. He was a hammer to my scalpel.
I danced around the ring, my movements liquid and precise. Each step calculated, every punch thrown with the intention of maximizing speed and minimizing exposure. The brute's blows left trails of air pressure, which I used to gauge my distance. As he swung wildly, I took the opening.
My first punch was a feint, a mere tap to gauge his response. His eyes widened as he realized how fast I was. His second swing came, and I was already there, delivering the next four punches in rapid succession. Each one a blur of cyan, striking him in a different spot—his ribs, the side of his neck, the kidney, and finally, his jaw. The force didn't need to be overwhelming; speed was my ally here. His body staggered with each hit, the brute fleeting power level on my scouter confirming the impact.
"G-G-G-Gard..." He stuttered, trying to catch his breath. "Gardon the Killer!"
The room chuckled at the dramatic introduction, and my smirk grew wider. "Well, Gardon the Killer," I said, stepping closer to the staggering behemoth, "let's see if you can live up to your name."
He lunged at me, fists clenched, but I was ready. I sidestepped again, and this time, I didn't hold back. My fist connected with his chin, snapping his head back. He stumbled, and the crowd's laughter grew.
"Is that all you got, Gardon?" I jeered, basking in the moment. "Maybe you should call yourself Gardon the bitch!".
The room erupted in laughter, and the giant alien's face turned a darker shade of green. He roared and charged, his fists raised high for a hammer blow. I knew this was the moment to end the farce. I had to show them who was boss.
Gardon's eyes narrowed as he took aim with his right fist, a sickly green aura gathering around it. His power level shot up on my scouter: 3,000. This was no joke. I braced for the impact, but instead of blocking, I ducked. His fist slammed into the ground, creating a small crater. The force of his blow sent a shockwave through the training room, knocking a few lesser grunts off their feet.
But Gardon wasn't done. He swung his other hand in a wide arc, the green ki trailing like a whip. I rolled, the energy missing me by inches. The smell of burnt metal filled the air. The grunts around the ring had gone quiet, watching in a mix of horror and excitement.
I had to end this fight fast before I fucking die. This wasn't some street brawl where I could play around. This was the Frieza Force, where a single mistake could mean annihilation.
So, I did what any sane person would do—I jumped. I shot into the air, my legs coiled like a spring, and landed with a grace that would make a cat jealous. Before Gardon could react to the earthquake his own punch had created, my foot was already connecting with his spine. A jab, swift and precise, aimed at the nerve cluster I knew would drop him like a sack of bricks. His body went rigid, the green aura around his fist dissipating as he lost all control.
He toppled over like a giant oak tree, his massive frame crashing to the floor with a thunderous boom. The room went silent, the laughter of the grunts replaced by a mix of awe and fear. My scouter beeped again, the red text flashing:
ENEMY DEFEATED. POWER LEVEL: 0.
The trainer, a tall, thin man with a power level of 6,000, strode over to me, a hint of respect in his eyes. "Good job, new meat," he grunted, slapping my shoulder. "You've got potential, and technique to boot. Name?"
"Cody," I said, straightening my standard issue Frieza force armor with a smirk. "Nice to meet you."
The trainer nodded, his expression unreadable. "Cody, huh? Well, keep this shit up, and maybe you'll survive to see another day. Maybe."
The crowd dispersed, leaving me standing in the ring with Gardon's unconscious body. The grunts shot me glances filled with a mix of envy and wariness. Some whispered among themselves, no doubt placing bets on how long I'd last. But I wasn't done proving myself—not by a long shot.
After the match, the trainer took me aside. "Listen up, Cody," he began, his voice gruff but not unkind. "You've got a knack for this, but don't let it get to your head. In the Frieza Force, we value power above all else. Your tactics are impressive, but you're going to need to get a lot stronger if you want to survive. And trust me, you don't want to piss off the wrong people."
I nodded, my eyes scanning the room as I considered his words. "I just want to figure out what's going on here and make my way through this," I said, trying to sound more casual than I felt. "I don't aim to start any trouble."
"Good," the trainer grunted. "Because trouble has a way of finding those who seek it. Now, let's see what you're really made of."
He slapped the scouter off my face, and it hovered in the air for a moment before landing in his hand. He looked at the data, then at me, and smirked. "You're pretty observant, Cody." He tossed the scouter back to me, and as it attached to my face again, the data on him appeared. Koro, 4,000 power level. The name fit his stoic demeanor and the way the grunts around us moved out of his way.
Koro, a seasoned Appule warrior, stood tall at a towering six feet, his muscular frame a testament to the harsh life he'd lived. His skin was a deep, rich purple, with crimson spots scattered across his arms and legs, standing out like flaming embers in the dim light. His eyes were a piercing white, gleaming with an intensity that spoke of his sharp focus and unbending will. A scar carved through his left cheek, a silent narrator of battles long past, adding a rugged edge to his face.
"Where the hell am I?" I asked, my voice echoing slightly in the vast training hall.
Koro's eyes narrowed. "You're on board the Frieza Force fleet ship Z-7," he said, his tone suggesting he found my ignorance amusing. "Where else would you be, grunt?"
"And why would I know that?" I shot back, playing it cool. "I just woke up with a new body and no clue how I got here."
He chuckled darkly. "You're not from around here, are you?" Koro leaned closer, his metallic claws clicking against the floor as he folded his arms over his chest plate. "Well, let me fill you in. You're in the Frieza Force, the most feared and powerful army in the galaxy. And as for your question about surviving, that's what the training is for."
"Surviving?" I echoed, raising an eyebrow. "I've got bigger plans than that."
Koro studied me for a moment before his grin grew. "I see," he said, nodding. "Another cocky bastard with dreams of grandeur." He leaned in closer, his breath hot against my cheek. "But let me tell you, Cody, in this force, dreams get crushed faster than a bug under my boot."
He straightened, his gaze piercing. "But," he continued, "if you're half as good as you seem to think you are, I might just have a use for you."
With that, he turned and left the training hall, the clank of his armor echoing off the metal walls. I stared after him, a mix of confusion and excitement bubbling in my gut. A use for me? This was getting interesting.
Stepping out into the hallway, I couldn't help but marvel at the ship's design. The stark white walls were a stark contrast to the grimy barracks I'd just left. Everything was clean, almost too clean—like someone had just finished wiping down every surface with antiseptic. The rounded edges of the corridor reminded me of the inside of an eggshell, smooth and flawless. The yellow lights hummed overhead, casting a soft glow that made the purple and blue armor of the passing soldiers pop like a neon sign in the night. The air was colder here, and the faint scent of ozone tingled my nostrils.
And then she strutted in—Zelle, the barbaric Saiyan. She had a certain swagger to her, a confidence that screamed she could rip someone's head off with her bare hands and not break a sweat. Her short spiky brown hair bobbed as she approached, a fierce smirk playing across her battle-scarred features.
"Hey, brainiac," she called out, her voice a low rumble. "You really laid into Gardon good. Fought all weird and different, though. Not like any Zarbonian I've seen."
I leaned against the wall, crossing my arms. "Thanks," I said, not bothering to hide the smugness in my tone. "It's all part of my charm."
Zelle snorted, the sound like a boulder rolling down a hill. "Charm, right," she said, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "More like cheating."
"I prefer 'thinking outside the box'," I corrected her.
Her smirk grew. "Well, whatever it is, keep it up. It's fun to watch you outsmart these brutes." She leaned in closer, her breath hot against my ear. "But don't think you're special just 'cause you can dance around them. You're gonna need some real power to make it here."
Her words were a challenge, and I liked it. I'd always thrived under pressure, and the Frieza Force was shaping up to be the ultimate battleground for me to prove myself. Plus, the thought of pissing off enough people to get noticed by the big boss—Frieza himself—was too tempting to resist.
"I'll keep that in mind," I said, flashing her a grin. "But I've got a feeling I'll be seeing a lot more of you in the training room."
Zelle's eyes narrowed, and she tapped her chin thoughtfully. "You know, I've got a soft spot for underdogs," she murmured. "Might just train with you, see if you're worth the effort."
A thrill shot through me. A Saiyan warrior, willing to train with a lowly grunt like me? This was an opportunity I couldn't pass up. "Deal," I said, sticking out my hand.