"Grand theft. Trespassing. Conspiracy. Forgery. Presentation of false documents. Intent to distribute restricted substances. Dissent. Aiding and abetting. Accessory. Attempted murder. ...Murder of a public official." Yakone looked up toward the emotionless Alien, jet-black visor meeting his gaze unsympathetically. His eye twitched defiantly, shallow breaths struggling to take in air as the Saiyan was left to wallow in a pool of his own blood. "Your trial has already been reviewed by a jury. The verdict: guilty. Your sentence: life imprisonment, no parole." Muscled arms yanked Yakone to a slouching stand, tossing him into the blackened interior of a transport shuttle with little regard. As the doors swung shut to trap him in utter nothingness, one thing was on his mind: rage.

Galactic Patrol Prison Norsca. On paper, it was a licensed, regulated, maximum-security institution on the fringe of PTO space. In practice, it was a convenient way for anyone with enough money and influence to make people disappear - beyond that, suffer. The complex was an ugly slab of shielded Katchin alloy wedged into the surface of a frozen moon with temperatures low enough to kill most species in minutes. There was one highly-trained guard to every five prisoners, with a suppressant field and specialized collars keeping the most dangerous inmates docile.

Yakone walked the entry hall in tattered, bloody clothing, flanked by baton-wielding guards on either side. One of the Saiyan's eyes was swollen shut. His jaw hung loose, chest bled, and stride lame. For all they boast about their efficiency and strategy, he'd raised Hell. Of the two dozen men dispatched to capture him, fifteen would return. He was lucky they assumed his tail was still a weakness. As it was, the surviving force had damn near torn it off in a rage. It suits them, Yakone thought humorously. To act so mighty, only to fall apart the moment they come across a worthy opponent.

Yakone bit back a grunt as he entered the containment field - a vile mix of gravitron pressure and power suppressants that reduced him to the level of a damn Earthling. His escorts removed the cuffs around his wrists, skin underneath an angry red. "Face forward." One of them demanded, the Saiyan's hesitation earning him a jab. Yakone's teeth gnashed as he righted himself, turning to face an opaque wall of what was presumably-one way vision. A miniature camera descended from the ceiling, snapping his photo. "Face right." Snap. "Face left." Snap. "Name." He scowled, lips parting to croak: "Yakone."

He was quickly ushered into the next room alone. A cramped affair with a single gated light overhead. Yakone winced at a high-pitched whine as a hatch embedded in the wall slid open, revealing an orange-numbered jumpsuit. "This is your uniform. You will wear it. Failure to do so will result in punishment. Don it now. Place any previous belongings into the bin." The Saiyan tossed the shredded clothes he had into the 'bin,' knowing full well he'd never see the ruined mess again. A plastic bag filled with assorted amenities followed suit. "Access to brushes, pastes, and general cleaning supplies is a privilege. This privilege can be revoked at any time without notice or warning. Failure to turn over items upon request will result in punishment."

Yakone scowled at nothing, taking the bag. This entire situation was already demeaning to his pride as a Saiyan warrior and the constant displays of power the prison had over him only stirred agitation. "You have been designated as high-risk. Your cell number is THIRTY-THREE. You will remain alone for at least the first two years of incarceration. Good behavior may earn relocation to the medium-security wing." A door slid open, and Yakone ambled unto a balcony overlooking some sort of interior courtyard already populated with prisoners, the opening slamming shut behind him and melding seamlessly into the wall.

A quick glance at the color-coded wall stripes told him he was on level three. It wasn't hard to find the door to thirty-three. The door was ajar. His cell was barren: a plain white cot with thin sheets, a toilet built into the floor, and a small hand-sized window affixed to his door looming over the courtyard below. Yakone stuffed his bag of amenities into his pillowcase, abandoning his new accommodations. A reverse waterfall staircase connected the prisoner levels, and a separate affixment for guards was attached to the opposite wall. Even now, armed men patrolled the catwalks above them, cameras observing their every move.

Yakone's tail wrapped around his waist instinctively as his feet hit smooth stone, the muscled Saiyan sizing up the yard in a sweeping glance. Most of the inmates ignored him aside from a dismissive glare. About thirty-two other men of varying species dotted the area, engaging in activities ranging from lifting weights, playing cards, and throwing a stitched ball back and forth. It'd be much like any other generic prison were it not for the outdoor locale and field pressing down on him from every side. Much to his disappointment, there were no Saiyans among them. Oh well. Better to have lesser company than no company at all.

He'd nothing to cash in for cards and no friends to wriggle into the ball game, so Yakone opted to head toward the exercise section. Even his muscular physique was far from impressive when confronted with the absolute mountain of a green-skinned Beppin, sweating intensely as he benched the equivalent of a space pod. Given how the others avoided him, he seemed to be all brawn and little else. Even a partially charismatic monster would've had a posse of some kind. Yakone's eyes fell on a sandy-toned brown-haired Earthling male. He seemed roughly around his age. Fairly well built, with a slick style and confident smile.

Black eyes narrowed, finding it laughable that a HUMAN of all things was considered dangerous enough to be shoved into the same spaces as Saiyans and Beppins. Even with the field's effects roughly equalizing them, Yakone found it absurd that some backwater martial artist could possibly have the same skill as someone of his caliber. "Earthling." He crossed the gap in three long strides, a scowl attached to his face. "Why are you here?" The young man paused, an eyebrow raising curiously as he set his barbell down.

"Bit early for the new guy to be asking for papers, ain't it? They don't let the non-violent types in here anyway, so I wouldn't worry about that." He stood, sharp chocolate eyes meeting Yakone's. Of all indignancies, the human being slightly TALLER only made him more irate.

"I mean here, in the high-security wing. I can't imagine you'd be all that dangerous with the field lifted." That's why they were here. A failsafe area filled with elite guards, neurotoxin emitters, and other forms of secondary defense to subdue the inmates if they regained their power. "So tell me. Why are you here?" Yakone took a step closer, arms folded across his chest.

"Same reason as you, I suppose. Suits think I'll break out given a chance." His provocations being accepted and essentially ignored surprised Yakone. He had challenged even mighty Changelings and Herans, and every time they fought back with a burning ferocity. Has this man no pride, or does he know the truth? "Why don't you join me for a few reps, pal. We'll talk things over. Your head looks primed to pop right off with that much steam coming out of it."

Against all odds, Yakone sat. His right hand went to pick up a mirrored weight to the human, face set in a stone-cold look of distaste. "I will admit, you are one of the boldest Earthlings I have ever seen. Is it the suppressants that give you such confidence?" They were surrounded by armed guards ready to keep the inmates alive (if not happy) and a blanket that made everyone here roughly equal to humans, give or take some natural bulk.

"Keido. And nah." Keido started to pump his weight at a steady pace. "Ask big green over there. Our last scuffle was pretty fun." The Beppin grunted from his seat, Yakone bewildered that he'd even go along with such a ridiculous claim. "I can tell by those cuffs. You had some special power, yeah? Beyond just power." The Saiyan begrudgingly nodded. The Flame was a potent ability that would aid in his escape immensely, even when neutered. Between breaching the prison itself and surviving on the cold moon of Freya, it made sense why they had stripped it away.

"And yeah, I can guess what you're thinking. I don't have any." The Earthling continued on, nonplussed. "Turns out when you come from a little, insignificant planet, people tend to underestimate what things you're capable of." Keido smiled wide, his battle power somehow almost DOUBLING for a second before being snuffed again. Yakone's weight clattered to the floor as he stood abruptly.

"How." It was a simple demand this time. No being below a hundred thousand could resist the field's effects so effectively. Not a Saiyan, not a Changeling, and certainly not a Human. Yakone's blood curdled at the thought of being bested by someone like this, but he knew when to admit defeat. If he wanted any hope of leaving this damnable prison, he'd NEED that ability.

"Ol' Humie trick. I'm sure a big tough Saiyan like yourself doesn't need it, right?" Yakone growled lowly in response, grabbing Keido by the collar.

"Hide behind your captor's guards all you want, Earthling, but if you think you can continually mock me? Push hard enough, and you'll face real suffering." He was the son of Yangcong the Elite, galactic wanderer, savior of Mott, and beyond some human martial artist. The Saiyan roughly shoved Keido back. "I will figure out your secret." No doubt EVERYONE here wanted to break free if they could. A private prison for the wealthy and powerful stashed as many dissenters and revolutionaries as it did problematic wandering soldiers.

-

Yakone's biological clock was out of sorts, having been kidnapped during a planet's early morning. Lunch was being served on Freya. The prisoners had been ordered back to their cells, Yakone staring at the blank metal wall as he contemplated his next moves. His father had already promised: forty days, and he'd stage a rescue. That meant Yakone had thirty-nine to prove he wasn't a failure. Didn't need his father to always save him. The Saiyan bitterly bit into a piece of dry bread. A couple weeks to stage an escape from one of the highest-secured prisons with outside help... ha! A challenge worthy of a future Elite such as himself.

Yakone tapped one of his cuffs against his bed's metal frame, unsurprised when not a scratch was left behind. Finding a way to take them off would be vital to his long-term plan, though HAVING them off in view of the guards - most of which were well-trained enough to spot a threat like him without his cuffs - would be suicide. The Flame was an escape tool, but with the suppressant field in place, it'd serve no standing in combat. Beyond that, he had no clue where his cell was. Seamless doors, rotating architecture, no natural light. The place was a maze.

That night Yakone slept soundly, dreams of how he'd tear apart his kidnappers, brining a smile to the Saiyan's face as a long, cold night passed in Norsca.