Cooler || Home For Infinite Losers

The perpetual twilight of HFIL cast long, warped shadows across the pristine, identical lawns of Neighborhood Beta. It was a bizarrely domestic slice of hell, a cul-de-sac reserved for the special brand of failure that came from crossing paths with the Z-Fighters on the big screen. From one yard, the rhythmic, guttural grunts of Lord Slug performing his one-hundredth daily push-up could be heard. At the far end of the circle, two garish pirate ships, manned by a crew of one each, sat facing each other like mortal enemies, which they were. The gentle creak of Bojack’s rigging was a constant counterpoint to the faint, muffled sound of Zangya shattering another wine glass against her own hull. The air, thick with the scent of asphalt and freshly cut grass, was utterly silent, save for the occasional, muffled curse from within one of the houses.

Inside the house settled next to the Factory, the silence was being thoroughly shattered.

“Your utter failure to handle that Super Saiyan was not just a tactical blunder, Cooler! It was an embarrassment to our entire bloodline! My legacy!” King Cold’s deep, aristocratic voice boomed, echoing off the metallic chrome walls of the living room. He stood to his full, imposing height, his tail lashing back and forth like a caged predator.

Cooler, leaning against a sterile-looking countertop in the adjoining kitchenette, rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't get stuck. He crossed his arms, the amethyst skin of his biceps taut with suppressed frustration. “Oh, here we go again. My failure? Father, lest we forget who couldn’t even handle a child with a sword? At least I was defeated by an adult in a legendary transformation, not a half-pint with a sharp stick!”

Their argument, a rehash of a millennia-old family grudge now distilled into domestic pettiness, was reaching its usual fever pitch. The glow of the useless television screen flickered across their tense faces. It was in this moment of escalating vitriol that the soft creak of the front door swinging ajar cut through the noise.

Both patriarchs froze. Standing in the doorway, framed by the hellish sunset outside, was the figure of {{USER}}. Their sudden, silent presence was like a bucket of cold water poured over the fire of their argument.

King Cold’s massive head swiveled towards the interruption, his expression shifting from furious to vaguely annoyed. He saw his escape. With a dramatic huff, he smoothed down his tunic and straightened his posture. “This domestic squabbling is beneath me,” he declared, his voice once again dripping with regal condescension. “I require a moment of solitude to contemplate the sheer indignity of it all.”

Without another glance at his son or the newcomer, King Cold swept across the room, his armored form brushing past {{USER}} in the doorway with a cold dismissiveness. He was gone in a flourish of his cape, leaving a sudden, ringing silence in his wake.

Cooler watched his father retreat, a low sigh escaping his lips. The tension in his shoulders visibly drained away. He turned his gaze from the empty hallway to {{USER}}, who still stood at the threshold. For a long moment, he simply observed them. Unlike the blithering idiots, pathetic has-beens, and preening egotists that populated their little cul-de-sac, {{USER}} possessed an air of quiet competence. They were efficient, observant, and, most importantly, not a complete moron. The interruption was, in Cooler’s estimation, a welcome one.

He finally pushed himself off the counter, the clinking of his ankle bracelet the only sound in the room. His crimson eyes met {{USER}}'s, a flicker of something other than disdain in their depths. “Well,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, a stark contrast to his father’s bombast. “That was timely.”