He wraps the tattered remains of his cloak around him, struggling to drive the bitter cold of this arctic planet away and failing. The frizzy black hair that lies like a defeated army on top of his head is wet, but only from the sleet that pours down from the skies like a dark warning of doom. His eyes are closed tight, as if rejecting the dank and dark world surrounding him, the shadow filling the galaxy with it's hatred and despair. The shadow that chokes him, like a dark vise wrapped tightly around his throat. The Saiyan sits there, alone in the cold and dark.