The Lookout was silent save for a soft breeze that cut a chill in the air from the open window. It was always cold there this time of year. Several hundred feet below the Lookout, grey clouds were growing darker by the hour, threatening a downpour. The birds had all gone. Makken, the Guardian of Earth, was off meeting with the leaders of the Disciples, and he had taken his bodyguards with him. This was one of the only times Dante would have the Lookout to himself, and he used the silence to meditate. Sitting on the floor of his bedchamber, Dante sat with legs crossed and his hands resting on his knees. Focusing intently on the breeze wafting past his face, he turned his right hand over so that the palm was facing up. Slowly, methodically, Dante began to release his ki. The energy that generated from his hand, an incandescent blue orb that permeated warmth, began to rise towards the ceiling. Dante turned his hand back over and focused on the ki. It began to twist and contort, forming different shapes based on Dante's unconscious thoughts. It became a tree first, then a ship, Makken, and finally the Lookout itself. The glowing blue miniature broke apart in seconds, the ki returning to it's original form and spiraling slowly around the bedchamber. Something far to the south exploded and Dante's eyes snapped open. It was much too far for him to hear the blast, but he could feel the energy from the attack that made it. It was abrupt, powerful, and it wasn't alone. That didn't worry Dante as much as he thought it would. What bothered him the most was that he'd felt that same power before. It was one of the Trueborn, the so called 'rightful' rulers of earth. Dante and the Guardian had both attempted to find meaning in these sudden bursts of energy, had been trying for months in fact. It probably wasn't as complicated as they were making it out to be. The True Sons were clearly fighting amongst themselves. They always had. But this was the fifth time this year, and the aggressor was always the same. Dante knew from experience that when that energy signature faded away, there would be an entire village somewhere to the south that had no more inhabitants. Dante stood and turned towards his bed. Hanging from the headboard was a black, short-sleeved gi and a pair of loose-fitting pants. He dressed himself, laced up his boots and exited his bedchamber. The Lookout always felt strange when nobody was there. It seemed so much larger than it really was. An enormous, bowel shaped platform suspended atop a massive tower, the Lookout was normally home to at least twenty people. Most of them were Saiyans or otherwise affiliated with the Disciples of Son Goku in some way. Dante was the exception to that rule. He was not a member of the Disciples in any official capacity. No, his destiny was bound to the Lookout itself, and to the Guardian. But today there was no Guardian, no twenty-some bodyguards, no servants or assistants waiting on the Guardian hand and foot. There was only the Keeper. Dante started down the hall, focusing intently on the now waning ki to the south. It didn't take him long to pinpoint the precise location. As soon as he stepped outside of the Lookout, he saw the smoke rising from the horizon. Dante ran a hand across the top of his hairless head, wrapped an antenna around his finger. It was a nervous gesture he'd performed ever since he was a child. Not once had he ever realized he was doing it. This is getting worse Dante thought. If we don't do something about this soon, it's not just going to be Saiyan cities being destroyed. Dante, the Namekian, the Keeper of the Lookout, reached out one last time and felt a single source of energy. Then there was another and the first was snuffed out. The battle was over as quickly as it had begun. ======================================================================================================================================= The battlefield had grown quiet. Lucarien stood at the front of the village chief's home, a large, if rather drab manse just a few hundred yards from the rest of the village. His men were going from house to house, picking the belongings from the fallen corpses and burglarizing their homes. Lucarien, however, had no need for looting. He had found exactly what he wanted when he showed up; a defiant Saiyan chief. The only piece of loot Lucarien would be taking would be the earring that hung from the remaining half of the chief's head. He bent down and plucked the earring from the charred and blackened ear, taking a decent portion of the lobe with it. Lucarien wiped off the gore and held the trinket out in front of him. It was a small leather ornament, a cracked moon scorched onto the face of it. That was the coat of arms this chief's predecessor had decided on. Lucarien grunted out something that might have been a laugh. What did a cracked moon represent that was worthy of a Saiyan tribe? He imagined it probably had something to do with planet Vegeta, but that didn't matter anymore. The corpse laying before Lucarien now certainly didn't need any representation. They had barely put up a fight at all. The chief had voiced his... opposition to King Adiqa and the battle was nearly over before he finished his sentence. Lucarien's men were blooded veterans. The idiots with a cracked moon on their flag hadn't contributed to a real fight since the first war with the Disciples. Lucarien had grinned as he saw the fear grow in the chief's eyes, as he witnessed the deaths of his kinsmen and soldiers. It had become something of a habit at this point, but his wife had been one of the first to go. When the battle was nearing its end, the chief had tried something Lucarien was certain was supposed to be an attack, but he found himself with a mouthful of energy a second later. The Trueborn had taken the fighting to the village, and there were still a few residents that needed to be dealt with, but for the most part, this tribe had been eradicated. Ah, and what perfect timing Lucarien thought. On the other side of the village he could see his troops forming up in a line, right hands balled into fists over their hearts. Twenty men in traditional Saiyan armor over red bodysuits marched out before them. Beyond the Royal Guard, Lucarien could see the king, arms folded, floating forward as if his feet were too godly to be sullied by the dirt. Of course they are, your grace Lucarien thought bitterly. Clutching the earring in his fist, he started towards the king. "Your Grace," Lucarien said, dropping to a knee and bowing his head. He held out his hand, still balled into a fist. "A trophy, taken from the ignorant chief himself." The king took the earring and inspected the symbol on the front, a small burst of air escaping his nose. "You've done well, Lucarien," said king Adiqa, handing the trinket to one of his bodyguards. "Of all the tribes that have refused to stand behind me, the chief of this one had a special... arrogance about him. I trust he didn't die well?" "Didn't even put up a fight, your grace. I nearly took his head off before he could throw his first punch." The king laughed again. "Knowing him, it may literally have been his first punch. It's for the best he didn't join us. Weak Saiyans are not Trueborn. Rise, my servant, show me what punishment you've wrought on the fools." Lucarien did as he was instructed, though there really was no need for him to walk alongside the king. He would have much preferred to get his men back to the palace before they started fighting over the best loot. The king and his guards carved a path across the village, back towards the chief's manor. He smiled at the sight of the dead chief, then extended an arm outward. The sound of the door blasting off it's hinges was deafening. If there weren't so many guards around, Lucarien might have rolled his eyes. His majesty couldn't even open a door without making a show of it. "Lucarien," The king said, not looking away from the manor. "Have you ever wanted to be the leader of a Saiyan tribe?" He thought about it for a long moment. He had of course, but it was generally inadvisable to reveal one's ambitions to a king. "No, my lord. I prefer a warrior's life, not that of a politician." Another laugh from Adiqa. "You're a horrible liar, Lucarien. Tell your men not to burn too much of the village. They'll be sleeping here for the time being." "Your grace?" "Three hundred miles west of here, there is a temple carved into the side of a mountain. It is home to nearly a hundred blooded and well trained warrior monks, Disciples. Do you know why nearly a hundred well trained warrior monks are living in a temple so far from civilization?" Lucarien shook his head. "It's because they're protecting something. Our man on the inside insists that this temple is where the Disciples are keeping the Three-Star Dragon Ball." Lucarien's eyes widened. "Your grace, I-" "Get this place cleaned up, Lucarien. I don't know how long it will be before we locate the other six, but you'll be running this village until we do. Tell your men to mask their energy levels. The Disciples may be fools, but they won't suffer a Trueborn to exist anywhere near one of their precious Dragon Balls." The king didn't say another word. He spun around to face Lucarien and the expression on his face was more than enough to get the message across. Fail me here those eyes said and whatever the Disciples do to you will be considered a mercy. With that, the king rose into the air, his guards in tow, and all of them soared back towards the palace leaving Lucarien with eighty men and a now inhabited village.

Mizu's Saiyan pod glowed like a shooting star as it penetrated Earths atmosphere. It was strange feeling he felt. He was returning to the home of his ancestors after hundreds of years. Mizu's ancestors had abandoned the Earth during the Great Saiyan War. Ever since they have been nomads. They traveled from planet to planet looking for a place to call home. Mizu's parents believed that they had found one on the planet called Xenal. Mizu grew up on Xenal becoming a warrior and protector of peace on the planet. He had many friends there. Life was a good one until one day a powerful warlord arrived on the planet with an army. Xenal fought with the planets natives as long and hard as he could but it appeared to be a futile resistance. So an evacuation of the planet was planned. Sadly the warlord found out about the evacuation and destroyed every ship as it tried to flee. As far was Mizu knows he's the only one who managed to escape. With nowhere else to go Mizu traveled to Earth. He hoped there he could live in peace. Mizu gritted his teeth as the pod crashed into the Earth. Mizu opened the pod and stepped out to see a mountain temple in front of his eyes. It had been days since Mizu had eaten anything. He flew up to the temple hoping they had food to offer.

Pomodoro struggled against the weight of the two large metal crates threatening to come together and crush him. He felt the muscles in his braced limbs strain as the shipping truck he was aboard jostled and shook. With no seat to brace himself against he found himself holding back the loose crates for the entire trip. And only now was he finally starting to feel the strain. Since Pomodoro was young he had loved travelling long distances. Usually it meant that all he had to do was go to sleep for a few hours and he would wake up in an entirely foreign place. Flying in first class luxury always meant that there were new sights, new sounds and most importantly, new food waiting wherever he woke up. Not this time though. With a mournful grunt he thought about his bank account and how hopelessly dry it had become. He didn't mind working for a living but it got in the way of his journeying. So, in a convenient stroke of luck he found himself signed up with what he had thought would be an easy job. But by the time he realized what the "travelling" portion of the "Grand Travelling Circus of Oz" ad he found had meant he was already halfway on board the truck. So there he was, narrowly avoiding being crushed to death doing the thing he loved most. The expression on his face kept switching between a grimace of pain and an insane grin of boundless joy. When the truck stopped and the doors opened he was grinning. "What the hell!?" said the driver when he saw him. Pomodoro gave an abrupt grunt and threw the crates forward, past the driver and into the hood of the truck sitting behind them. There was a cry of confusion just before the sound of metal crashing into metal. The ruined truck's driver jumped out of the cabin just in time to narrowly avoid being killed. After a long silent moment of looking from Pomodoro back to the gnarled engine block behind him, the first driver repeated himself. "What the HELL!?" Pomodoro considered the small man for a brief moment then cheerily asked "Where is the food?"

The smoke hadn't even cleared before the Saiyan pod was surrounded by nearly a dozen Disciple warriors. The garrison commander had felt the approaching energy signature and immediately dispatched as many scouts as he could afford. He couldn't risk leaving the temple undermanned. The first team to arrive at the crash site had fanned out, hidden themselves among the rocks and the brush, lowering their energy levels to near non-existence. Whoever was in that pod wouldn't sense them. Each warrior tensed for action as the door to the pod burst open, loudly releasing clouds of condensed oxygen. They all watched as a boy stumbled out of the pod, coughing in the smoke and dust left behind by his vessel's intimate and sudden meeting with the ground. He had strikingly red hair and wore a dirt-caked white cloak over, strangely enough, a Capsule Corps jacket. A scouter rested on his ear, the lens around his eye scuffed and scratched. His appearance, his vessel, the scouter all pointed towards the boy being a Saiyan. The fact that he'd apparently come from off-world meant that he likely wasn't a member of the True Sons, but that meant little to the warriors currently working their way into a circle around him. If he came from off-world, he wasn't a Disciple either. He was a trespasser. The boy had had the terrible luck of landing just a few hundred yards from the Dragon Temple, rigorously protected by almost one hundred of the Disciple's best warriors, each one tasked with ensuring that no threat to the treasure within went unchecked. He looked up towards the temple, apparently unaware that he was being watched, and slowly, he began to ascend into the air. Before he made it half the distance to the temple, one of the scouts vanished and shimmered into existence before the space-faring youth. Moments later, the rest followed suit. Soon the boy found himself surrounded on all sides by Saiyain warriors dressed in white cloaks and scouters. "You've landed your ship on hallowed ground," said the lead scout. "How unfortunate."

Mizu thought to himself. "Well this isn't the welcome I was hoping for." He threw his hands up into the air in surrender while he powered down. He then spoke nervously. "Hollowed ground? Can we maybe talk about this?" Mizu's stomach loudly growled. "I swear all I want is some food! I haven't eaten in days. I don't have any money but you can have my ship if you want it." Mizu was clearly terrified. He had just been forced off his planet to drift through space just to be possibly killed on arrival to his families homeland. Sure he was a strong fighter but he knew he didn't stand a chance against these odds. Especially not when he was starving. He only hoped for his life that his assailants would see him as harmless.

"I haven't eaten in days. I don't have any money but you can have my ship if you want it." The lead scout smirked as he glanced over at the ruin that was the boy's ship. That much was a good sign at least. The Trueborn weren't much for subtlety, and a scheme this elaborate was far beyond them. Unfortunately for the boy, however, circumstances didn't change orders. "Welcome to earth, off-worlder," said the lead scout. "I hope you enjoy your stay." He turned to the rest of the scouts. "Burtagen, inform the commander that we've captured the trespasser. The rest of you, take him to the cells and feed him." He returned his gaze to the boy. If he was afraid, he did a decent job of hiding it. "You'll be treated fairly here, but I can't promise we'll ever let you leave. This place is supposed to be a secret. I'd imagine you felt the situation to the east before you even entered orbit. We're not taking risks." Before waiting for an answer, the lead commander nodded to one of his men. Two men floated forward, taking the boy by either arm. They didn't bother checking for weapons. Anything in his pocket was poultry compared to the initial power level he'd displayed as he stepped out of that pod. As the scouts took the boy away, their leader called one of them back. "Head to the Lookout," he instructed. "The Guardian and the Keeper surely know about the battle to the east already, find out if they've learned anything we don't know."

The lesson Tato was in was exceedingly boring. His teacher was a fat Namekian who had spent his whole life here on earth, and had devoted himself to studying the history and the legacy of the Great Son Goku and his family. Tato had taken this class before. He looked around him, seeing kids of 7 or 8 years old. His own class had already moved on, away from the village, to Disciple outposts. He too was going to graduate but as he had set his old lecturer on fire- as a joke! he always reminded people- he had been set back a year. It wasn't his fault all this historical stuff was so damn boring. Tato wanted to be out in the yard, sparring with the combat instructors, or climbing the waterfall overlooking the village- even sitting in the Medidation Hall with Old Man Coriflo was more fun than this! The class ended and Tato bounded out of the stuffy classroom, straight into the yard. He rushed up to his favourite combat instructor, but the man was facing a red-faced courier, discussing a letter in his hands. As Tato approached him, the instructor turned and seeing the boy grabbed his wrist and pulled him away from the other trainees. 'Tato. We have a need of you up in the 3-Ball Outpost. Boy, if you cause trouble you will not just be punished, you could be killed. Behave, do you hear me?' 'Yes, Instructor.' Tato replied meekly. The instructor looked on the boy and sighed. He would miss this kid. He ruffled Tato's hair, and said, 'I have something for you.' From his bag, the instructor pulled out a white training vest with an orangey-yellow trim. 'This was mine when I was your age. May it serve you well.' Tato bowed deeply, and going to his room set about packing his sole bag.

Mizu didn't resist as the men took him to the cell in the building. They gave him a sandwich which he proceeded to choke down very quickly. It was such a relief to finally get something in his stomach that he didn't even care much that he had been imprisoned. After he finished his food he politely spoke to one of the men guarding him. "Excuse me I don't mean to pry but I am really confused right now. Where am I and who are you people?"