stood there silent and surrounded by powers of menacing potency. Flanked by a small band of idealists and with little more than that misguided hope they held so dear. A new age, an age of lizards deposed, an Ape age, an age of Saiyans and glory. Since the day of genocide, Tils had forever held firm that he fought on the side of those that not only brutalised, but routed the men off of their prized ship and held it for years to their shame.

Those years, Tils thought, were the greatest years of his adventures, where he had fought against all odds to keep on the legacy of the Saiyans at the side of the mighty M-Force. Now those things were thrown into doubt by the muttering tongues and whispering lips of Aliens he didn't trust and Saiyans to whom he saw no reason not to. If he was wrong, and he had fought for so long beside those who had killed his people then what did it matter?

What did it matter how his death came, how his end arose. When his ball had finally begun to roll, it found itself rolling toward the foot of a mountain. Tils looked to his left, Seeing Garbaunz fleeing and the two Saiyans he had recruited ready to fight to the death. These enemies were coming on fast and coming for blood.

Saiyans he had only known a day ready to die for him, one of the M-Force's weakest. That was how desperate they were for his dream, for this Golden Age of Saiyans. He'd always been weak but he couldn't be today. He couldn't lose like this, wasting the lives of those loyal Saiyans.