The first thing Bob noticed was the taste of copper. It coated his tongue like old pennies, thick and metallic. His fingers—no, claws—dug into the cracked obsidian floor as he dragged himself upright.
His reflection in the polished black marble wall showed a monster. Light blue skin stretched tight over corded muscle, veins pulsing just beneath the surface like rivers under ice. Pink hair—pink?—framed a face that wasn't his, wasn't human. Gold armor bit into his shoulders, its edges digging crescents into alien flesh.
Bob flexed his hands, watching the gauntlets shift with unnatural smoothness—like liquid metal responding to thought alone. The red gem embedded in his chest plate pulsed faintly, a rhythm matching the unfamiliar heartbeat thudding against his ribs. He touched it instinctively, and a flood of images tore through his mind: cities burning, armies bowing, a throne carved from the bones of something colossal.
The cape—heavy, absurdly red—billowed without wind as he turned. His single eye adjusted instantly to the gloom of the chamber, picking out details human vision would've missed: the scorch marks on the ceiling from some long-ago battle, the way dust motes hung suspended in the air as if time itself hesitated here. The hakama pants whispered against his legs with each step, the purple sash cinching his waist like a noose he hadn't tied himself.
A voice crackled from nowhere, from everywhere—mechanical, loyal. "My lord Boros, the Namekian scout ships report the Dragon Balls are—" Bob—no, Boros—swiped a claw through the air, silencing it. The name *Namek* detonated in his skull. Not possible. Unless...
His reflection smirked back at him, revealing teeth too sharp, too many. The truth settled like a stone in his gut: Frieza wasn't here. Frieza had *never* been here. The destruction of Planet Vegeta, the terror of the cosmos—those were *his* victories. And now, somehow, he was standing at the start of a story that wasn't his.
Closing his eye, he reached inward—past the alien musculature, past the hum of cosmic energy coiled in his chest—and found the scattered remnants of Bob's memories. *Goku.* The name surfaced like a buoy in dark water. He'd need Super Saiyan to survive what was coming. But could Bob-as-Boros even allow that? The math was brutal: if he crushed Goku now, the Androids would slaughter what remained of Earth. Let him live, and Cell might still emerge.
A dry chuckle escaped him. He flexed his claws, watching light glint off their razor edges like miniature guillotines. *Buu. Beerus. Jiren.* Each name summoned visions of annihilation—galactic erasures he could now *participate* in rather than watch from afar. His pulse spiked, the gem in his chest flaring brighter. The idea was intoxicating: *he* could be the one to break them.
The comms crackled again, insistent. "Lord Boros, the Namekian elders are assembling their—" This time, his snarl tore through the air like a blade. "Delay them." His body moved before his mind could protest, already striding toward the hangar bay. If he was going to rewrite destiny, he'd need leverage. And seven wishing orbs glowed temptingly in the dark of space.
His lieutenant—a hulking brute with cybernetic mandibles—materialized from the shadows, clicking a salute. "My lord," it hissed, oily saliva dripping between serrated teeth, "Prince Vegeta's pod was detected breaching quadrant seven. No clearance codes transmitted." Bob—Boros—felt the revelation punch through him. *Vegeta ?*
The sound of fluid dripping somewhere in the ship's bowels synced with his racing thoughts. He saw it now: Raditz's corpse cooling on some backwater Earth field, Vegeta's sneer as he ripped open Nappa's spine. But without Frieza, the calculus changed entirely. Those monkeys weren't rebels—they were *his* assets. The Dragon Balls weren't just trinkets; they were keys to a throne he hadn't known he needed.
Waves of heat rippled off his gem as his instincts—Boros's instincts—howled for immediate orbital bombardment. But Bob clung to the memory of Vegeta's eventual heel-turn, that glorious moment when golden hair erupted like a middle finger to tyranny. Except now *he* was the tyrant. The paradox tasted bitter, like burnt circuits.
He grinned, feral, as his claws curled around the edge of a viewscreen. Let Vegeta come. Let him bring the Saiyan rage, the unrelenting pride. Because Boros knew something the prince didn't: Earth's fighters had already tasted death once. And this time, their executioner wouldn't be some petty despot in a hover chair. It would be a conqueror who'd walked both sides of the narrative.
The navigator—some stitched-together amalgam of reptilian and machine—flinched as his shadow fell across its console. "R-route locked, my lord," it stammered, tentacles skittering over holographic coordinates. The ship's engines whined to life, a sound like dying stars compressed into metal. Boros exhaled, watching his breath frost the air. The Namekians wouldn't know what hit them. And neither would the boy—Gohan—when he arrived to find no sanctuary, only slaughter.
His fingers twitched. The irony was almost poetic: Bulma's ship limping across the cosmos, Krillin's hopeful prayers, all while *his* fleet carved through the void like a blade through flesh. They'd land to scorched earth and silent villages, their precious Dragon Balls already tucked away in *his* trophy vault. The thought of their faces—wide-eyed, crumbling—sent a thrill down his spine. Would Gohan cry? Would Krillin beg? His gem pulsed eagerly.
Yet beneath the anticipation, something colder coiled. Vegeta's arrival wasn't just unexpected; it was a wild card. The prince had no Frieza to defy here—only Boros's own legacy draped over the universe like a funeral shroud. And when Saiyans had no one left to rebel against? They turned on each other. The ship shuddered as it tore into hyperspace, stars streaking into blood-red lines. Boros clenched his fists. Let them come. *All* of them. The game had just begun.
The viewscreen flickered to life, displaying Namek's emerald surface—so small from here, so fragile. His reflection superimposed over it, the smirk widening. Goku would arrive desperate, fists swinging, that idiotic hope flaring in his eyes. Boros licked his fangs. He could almost *taste* the moment: Goku's knuckles cracking against his jaw, the shock blooming across that stupid face when Boros didn't so much as stumble. Would the Saiyan scream when he realized? Would he *understand* that this time, the monster had read the script first?
A proximity alert blared—Vegeta's pod, streaking toward Namek like a bullet. Boros leaned in, watching the trajectory plot itself across the screen. The prince would land guns blazing, expecting terrified villagers and easy prey. Instead, he'd find Boros's war machines already carving trenches into the planet's flesh, their cannons humming with stolen Namekian energy. The irony was delicious: Vegeta, always the weapon, never the hand that wielded him. Boros's laugh echoed through the bridge, sharp enough to draw blood.
His lieutenant hesitated by the door, antennae twitching. "The scout team reports—" Boros silenced him with a glance. The Namekians were hiding their Dragon Balls? Good. Let them scurry. He'd burn their forests to ash and sift through the cinders himself. His gem flared again, casting jagged shadows across the walls. Somewhere below, Gohan would be clutching krillans arm, whispering questions about the red skies. Boros closed his eye. He'd answer them *personally*—with a fist through the boy's ribcage.
Dodoria and Zarbon materialized from the gloom, standing at rigid attention—one a mountain of pink flesh and tusks, the other a coiled viper in emerald armor. Their breathing hitched when Boros turned, his shadow swallowing them whole. "My lord," Dodoria rumbled, sweat beading between his brow ridges. Zarbon's fingers twitched toward his scouter—then froze. Boros remembered *exactly* how this scene played out in the original timeline. How *Frieza* would've sneered, how they'd groveled.
He crushed the thought like a bug underfoot. He wasn't some spoiled princeling glutted on cruelty. His brutality had *purpose*. The armada outside wasn't just for show—it was a scalpel. Boros stepped forward, watching Dodoria's jowls quiver. "Tell me," he purred, claws tracing the edge of Zarbon's jaw, "what's the first law of orbital bombardment?" The amphibian's gills flared. "M-minimum collateral, maximum terror—" Boros's grip tightened. "Wrong." The ship's hull groaned as he dragged them both toward the observation deck. "You scorch *everything*."
Below, Namek's oceans churned under a crimson sky. Artillery platforms unfolded like mechanical orchids, their barrels humming to life. Zarbon gasped—not at the coming carnage, but at the sight of Boros's gem flaring like a supernova. This wasn't destruction for destruction's sake. This was *artistry*. Villages ignited in precise grids, flames licking upward in perfect geometric patterns. Boros inhaled the ozone-rich screams crackling over comms. No messy genocide—this was *curation*.
The scouter on Boros's hip chirped. Vegeta's pod had entered the atmosphere, trailing smoke and defiance. He grinned. Let the prince land in the inferno. Let him taste the difference between Frieza's petty sadism and a conqueror's *vision*. The comms officer whimpered as Boros's claws punctured the console, dripping molten circuitry. "Open a channel," he murmured. Zarbon lunged to obey—too late. Boros's voice, when it came, split the air like a singularity: "Welcome to hell, monkey."
He didn't need the scouter to track Vegeta's rage—it pulsed through the ship's hull like a second heartbeat. Boros exhaled. The prince would arrive guns blazing, expecting groveling worms and easy prey. Instead, he'd find Boros's war machines already harvesting the planet's screams. The irony was exquisite: Vegeta, always the blade, never the hand that wielded him.
Zarbon's gills flared as Boros turned. The amphibian recoiled—too slow. Boros's claw hooked under his chin, lifting him until their eyes locked. "How long," he purred, "until the Ginyu Force arrives?" Zarbon's throat bobbed. "T-two cycles, my lord. Their last transmission—" Boros squeezed. Cartilage popped. "Tell them to bring their *A-game*."
The viewscreen flickered. Namek's emerald surface bloomed into crimson as artillery platforms unfolded like mechanical orchids. Boros inhaled the ozone-rich screams crackling over comms. The Ginyu Force would arrive to a masterpiece—a planet sculpted into ruin. His gem pulsed. Let them pose. Let them *dance*. He'd peel their theatrics apart like overripe fruit.
Dodoria's bulk blocked the doorway, sweat dripping between his brow ridges. Zarbon's gills flared behind him, fingers twitching toward his scouter—then freezing. Boros didn't turn. His throne, carved from the vertebrae of some forgotten god, groaned as he leaned forward. "Bring me the Dragon Balls," he murmured. The words slithered through the chamber like a blade drawn across silk. "And if you get the chance—" His claw traced a lazy arc through the air. "—Vegeta's head."
Zarbon's breath hitched. Dodoria's tusks ground together—*click-click-click*—like a faulty ignition. Boros watched their reflections warp in the polished floor. They'd fail, of course. Vegeta was too stubborn to die cleanly. But their corpses would make excellent bait. The comms officer whimpered as Boros's laughter rolled through the bridge, a sound like tectonic plates shifting.
Below, a mushroom cloud blossomed where a Namekian village used to be. Boros licked his fangs. The Saiyan's pod streaked through the firestorm like a comet—*right on schedule*. His claws curled around the armrests. Let Vegeta land in the inferno. Let him taste the difference between Frieza's petty sadism and a conqueror's *vision*. The throne's spines bit into his back. Pain was just another language. And Boros was *fluent*.
Vegeta's scouter shattered mid-sneer when Quí's fist connected—Boros clapped once, sharp enough to fracture the viewscreen. The Saiyan fought like a caged animal—all teeth and desperation—but there was something beautiful in how Quí's vines coiled around his throat. The aliens face crumpled an instant before Vegeta's fist did. Boros exhaled through his nostrils. One down. Two more pests scurrying through the wreckage—Krillin's bald head bobbing between burning huts, Gohan's tiny fists clutching a Dragon Ball like a holy relic.
dodorias corpse cooled somewhere in the jungle.his bulk blocked their escape route—until Vegeta's Galick Gun carved him in half diagonally, intestines spilling like overripe fruit. Boros traced the energy blast's trajectory. *Clever monkey.* Vegeta knew the rules—kill the witnesses, claim the prize. Except Krillin dove *into* the beam's path, arms outstretched, screaming something stupid about teamwork. The explosion painted the sky purple. When the smoke cleared, Vegeta was gone—just scorched earth and Dodoria's upper half blinking in confusion.
Zarbon's shuttle streaked after Vegeta's ki signature like a bloodhound, emerald armor glinting in Namek's twin suns. Boros drummed claws on the armrest. *Let them play.* The amphibian would drag Vegeta back broken—ribs shattered, pride intact—only for the prince to wake up stronger, angrier, *hungrier.* The healing pod's glass would shatter under golden energy. Zarbon's head would roll before his gills even had time to flare. Poetry in motion.
Radar signatures blipped—Ginyu Force signatures breaching the atmosphere in sync with Gohan's panicked gasp. Boros's grin split his face. Timing was everything. Vegeta would sense them too, that telltale *pop* of displaced air as Recoome's knee met Krillin's spine. Let the prince arrive mid-massacre, let him see Bulma sobbing over Yamcha's charred pelvis. The Saiyan's rage would be magnificent—a supernova contained in flesh.
Boros's throne creaked as he rose. Purple energy crackled along his forearms. *Almost.* Let Vegeta exhaust himself on the Ginyu grunts, let him taste that first, fleeting rush of power—just enough to make the inevitable *crunch* of Boros's fist through his sternum that much sweeter. The ship's hull vibrated with distant detonations. Somewhere below, Gohan's tears evaporated before they could hit the ground. Boros inhaled the ozone. *Curtains up.*
The scouters blinked hysterically—Goku's ship descended like a falling star. Not a meteor. Not a comet. A *star.* Boros's lips peeled back from teeth sharp enough to puncture battleship armor. No slow-motion entrance. No dramatic landing. Just the *BOOM* of gravity-defying metal hitting dirt, the shockwave flattening burning trees into perfect concentric circles. Dust plumed. Boros's gem *thrummed.*
Captain Ginyu's frog-smooth forehead wrinkled mid-flight—his body already twisting toward the new threat, fingers twitching into the first pose of a dance that would never finish. Boros stepped off his ship's ramp without looking down. The air *warped* where his boot met emptiness, reality itself recoiling as he dropped three hundred feet like a thrown spear. Ginyu had just enough time to widen his eyes before Boros's fist *folded* space between them.
The impact crater bloomed outward in slow motion—molten glass spraying in perfect concentric arcs, the ground rippling like water beneath Gohan's sneakers. Boros straightened from his crouch, dust sliding off his armor in lazy spirals. Behind him, the Ginyu Force's collective corpses twitched in unison, their scouters exploding in a synchronized fireworks display of sparks and static. Goku's jaw unhinged. Vegeta's scouter *pinged* once—then shattered from sheer mathematical disbelief.
Boros clapped. Once. Twice. The sound cracked like orbital artillery. "I must say," he murmured, pink hair writhing in the thermal updrafts, "I'm impressed." His grin widened as Krillin's knees buckled under the weight of that gaze—predatory, *amused*. "Defeating the Ginyu Force is no easy feat." His claws flexed, glinting with stolen Namekian sunlight.
Vegeta lunged first—because of course he did. Boros caught him by the throat without turning, his grip tightening just enough to make the prince's veins bulge like overripe grapes. Goku's fist *screamed* toward Boros's ribs, kaioken flaring—only for Boros to pivot, slamming Vegeta's body into the punch like a meat shield. Bones crunched. Vegeta's choked gasp sprayed flecks of blood across Goku's widening eyes.
Krillin's destructo disc whirred through the smoke, aimed perfectly for Boros's spine. Boros *let* it connect—his gem flared violet, and the disc shattered against his armor like glass against diamond. Gohan's scream was high, reedy. Boros licked Vegeta's blood off his claws. "Adorable," he murmured.
The ground ruptured as Goku unleashed a point-blank kamehameha. Boros rode the beam upward, sandals skidding molten trenches into the earth, his cape dissolving into embers. At the apex, he flipped—*plummeting* knee-first into Goku's sternum. The impact crater swallowed them both. Dust plumed. Silence.
Then Boros's laughter bubbled up from the pit, raw and unhinged. He emerged clutching Goku's limp form by the hair, dragging him toward the others like a hunter presenting his kill. "Round two?" he asked, tilting his head. Vegeta's scouter *pinged* frantically—power level: *error*. Krillin retched. Gohan's tears sizzled as they hit the scorched earth.