The air around where Freeza had been, anyhow; the discs send off in arcs with nothing to connect with. On the other side of the illusion, Freeza holds himself in the air, arms uncrossing to aim one flattened palm toward the doppelganger -- though not quite; his body shines Golden.

And he has grown rather tired of illusions, much less poor imitations.

A point-blank blast in one hand fires at the other Freeza, and his other palm calls into being a sphere larger than even he is, gaze turned toward the true enemy.

"About as rarely as I use contractions, you infant," he spits.