I don’t remember being born the first time. Second time? Oh, I remember everything. And let me tell you, waking up in a vat of goo with a tail and the inability to control your bdder is not exactly a spiritual awakening. It was more like a slimy, helpless, oh-god-why-am-I-a-baby kind of situation.

  The first thing I noticed, besides the slimy fluid and my own barely-formed limbs filing around like I was trying to swim through jello, was the beeping. Lots of beeping. Angry, judgmental beeping. I couldn’t see clearly through the thick stasis gss of my incubation pod, but there were figures moving—white coats, clipboards, one of them scratching his head like someone just farted into his coffee.

  And then I heard it.

  “Power level… 16?”

  There was a long silence. Then ughter.

  “Are we sure this one’s not broken?”

  ‘Sixteen?! Did I get reincarnated with the combat strength of a pstic spoon?!’

  Apparently, yes. Yes, I did.

  I was reborn as a Saiyan. That much was obvious from the tail wrapped around my leg and the low-grade testosterone radiating off everyone else in the room. I’d nded in the Dragon Ball universe—ground zero for some of the most absurdly overpowered battles in all fiction. And what did I get to face this world with?

  A power level that wouldn’t scare a house cat.

  “Meanwhile,” another voice said—this one reverent, awed, like they were witnessing divine intervention, “Broly… 10,000 and rising. His tent potential is extraordinary.”

  I couldn’t see him from where I was, but I felt the attention shift, the reverence in their voices. And that’s when it hit me.Broly.My twin brother is Broly.

  ‘Oh. Great. He's the living nuke. And I’m the paper bag.’

  They didn’t say much about me after that. The nurse, or technician, or whoever was responsible for our pod rotation, gave my capsule a dismissive tap with the back of her knuckles like she was inspecting a melon at the market. “Low-ranker,” she muttered. “Room 3C. Dump him with the others.”

  And thus began my glorious life among the elite.

  They moved me to a low-ranking infant dormitory, a wide, dimly-lit room filled with rows of cheap sleeping pods and crying babies. The air smelled faintly of recycled oxygen, spit-up formu, and Saiyan disappointment. All the other kids in this room had simirly pathetic power levels. One kid beside me had a scouter reading of 12 and was using his own tail as a pacifier. Another just drooled with his eyes half-closed like he was halfway through a lobotomy.

  ‘Excellent. Truly, a pantheon of warriors in the making.’

  I spent the next few months doing what babies do: eating, sleeping, pooping, and quietly panicking. Every day, the caretakers came through with their clipboards and nutrition packs. Every few weeks, someone got transferred to “warrior prep” if their power spiked. My pod never beeped again. Not once.

  ‘Honestly, I’ve been passed over harder than Yamcha on a dating app.’

  But I had one advantage. Memory.

  I wasn’t just a reborn baby—I was a fanboy. I remembered everything. Saiyan history. The Z-Fighters. The timelines. The sagas. I had watched the Frieza arc enough times to mouth the lines. I knew Pnet Vegeta was living on borrowed time. I knew Goku was going to be unched into space as an infant. I knew Broly would eventually become the gaxy’s angriest beefcake. And I knew I did not want to be on this rock when Frieza threw his cosmic tantrum.

  At six months, I could roll over, sort of sit up, and kind of scoot around like an overweight caterpilr. It wasn’t elegant, but I was mobile. Every day, I watched for signs—anything that might signal the end was near. Every beep from a nearby scouter made me flinch. Every blinking red light sent chills through my still-soft skull.

  And then I saw him.

  It was subtle at first. One of the observation decks just beyond the main dorm opened, and a Saiyan with a red bandana and a tired expression stepped inside. He looked just like Bardock, scar and all. He moved quietly, without fanfare, walking straight to one of the sleeping pods near the far end of the corridor. With a single fluid motion, he touched the pod controls. It hissed. Clicked. Lifted. And then—whoosh—it unched.

  ‘That’s it. That’s Kakarot. That was Goku’s pod. Which means—oh hell.’

  My breath caught in my tiny baby throat. My stubby hands clutched at the edge of my pod.

  "Pnet Vegeta is going to be destroyed," I squeaked, my voice still high and garbled like a rubber duck with a concussion. "Frieza’s gonna blow it all up!"

  None of the other babies reacted. One burped. Another farted. Typical.

  ‘Of course they don’t get it. They’re babies. I’m a baby too. But I’m a baby with context, dammit!’

  I had to go. Now. This was my only shot.

  Groaning, I twisted to the side of my pod, thumping against the release tch. My weak fingers scrabbled at the edge. The gss shifted slightly with a click, and I used all my upper body strength—i.e., not much—to push myself over the side. I hit the cold metal floor with a squeaky thud and a grunt.

  ‘Ow. My soft spot!’

  Crawling felt like dragging pudding-filled limbs across sandpaper, but I made it. I scooted, wobbled, flopped my way down the aisle toward the hangar, driven by raw fear and the memory of an entire pnet going boom. The doors were open—Bardock must’ve left them ajar—and in the center of the hangar was a pod. Sleek. Silver. Still humming with active thrusters. The same type of pod I’d seen Broly and Goku use in the movies.

  I let out a baby war cry that sounded like an asthmatic squirrel and crawled faster. My hands spped the floor with wet sps. My tail dragged behind me like a limp garden hose. I reached the pod and stared up at it like it was Mount Everest.

  ‘All right. You were born with the knowledge of a thousand anime episodes. Use that brain, Kalbi. Improvise. Adapt. Survive.’

  There was a glowing panel near the base of the pod. I smacked it. It hissed. The front hatch cracked open slightly.

  "Yes!" I yelped, climbing up with my arms trembling. "Open sesame, space Uber!"

  Inside, the seat was made for someone at least twice my size, but I squirmed into it. My legs dangled. My tail wrapped instinctively around a side bar. The console in front of me was not in Earth nguage, or even Japanese, because duh—it was Saiyan. The symbols glowed in red and green. Buttons pulsed. Levers waited for expert handling.

  ‘Okay, what would a complete idiot do in this situation?’

  I spped the shiniest, bluest, nicest-looking button I could find.

  The console lit up. The hatch sealed shut. My ears popped from the pressure shift. I felt the pod rumble beneath me, a low thrumming like a heartbeat—or a countdown.

  "YES. I’M A GENIUS BABY."

  The engines roared.

  Outside, arms began bring. Doors smmed open. I saw a shadow move across the hangar entrance—maybe a technician realizing the unauthorized unch. Or maybe someone coming to find me. Didn’t matter now.

  The pod lifted.

  Gravity pulled at my baby cheeks.

  Then—

  FWOOOOOOM.

  I was airborne. The walls shook. Stars streaked past the gss dome above me. Pnet Vegeta shrank below, a red dot in the ocean of space.

  I looked down at my hands. Tiny. Wrinkly. Useless.

  Then I looked up at the stars and let out a tiny sigh.

  ‘Well… at least I won’t be turned into space dust. Suck it, Frieza.’

  The hum of the pod’s life support system filled the silence. It was warm. Comfortable. Soothing. The panic faded. The adrenaline drained away. My eyelids grew heavy.

  ‘I’m alive. Somehow. I’m alive.’

  And before I could even start questioning where the pod was headed, I fell asleep—floating alone in space, on course for a blue pnet I hoped would be kinder than the st.

  Earth.