Author’s Notes: Begins roughly one year after Mirai Trunks returns to his own timeline; he defeated Cell 3 weeks after defeating the androids, rather than 3 years. Present timeline setting will be roughly one month after the defeat of Majin Buu. Warning in advance that there will *eventually* and *probably* be sex and some violence. There will be depressing discussion of canon deaths and possibly a few new ones, but the boys are safe.

[Retcon: In the first chapter I wrote that Trunks would be traveling to late April. I also wrote that he was going to arrive shortly after the defeat of Buu. Buu was defeated in May, canonically. Pretend all references to “late April” or any variations thereof are now “early June”. ]

Chapter 2: Un-straight Priorities

Gohan finished pulling the knot on his red belt closed before reaching down to lift the frayed cloth handles of his purple duffle bag. He’d gotten up and eaten early for a Saturday. His body was still in the rhythm of rising at dawn from his old school schedule. He walked as quietly as he could to the door and eased it open. He knew he could probably blow up the house without waking anyone, but he did his best to be considerate anyway.

As he reached the foot of the stairs he was unsurprised to see his parents’ door slightly ajar. His mother was already awake. He grabbed a biscuit from the counter as he headed for the front door. Closing it gently behind him, Gohan saw his mother a short way away in the yard, taking clothes off the line.

“Morning, mom,” he said brightly. She turned and smiled at him as he took half the biscuit in one bite.

“Good morning, Gohan! Off to Capsule, I suppose?” she asked. Gohan nodded. “Well, alright then, but don’t be gone all day this time! Remember, Videl is coming over for dinner tonight.”

“Right, mom,” he said; he’d have to beat Vegeta a bit harder than usual to appease his mother today. “I’m gonna head out now, see you tonight,” Gohan said, hopping onto Nimbus.

“Good-bye, Gohan!” she called as the fluffy, yellow-orange cloud carried him off into the sky. “Give that meathead a thrashing for me!”

Gohan chuckled as the wind whipped against his face. He was glad he finally had some time off. It wasn’t long ago that his mother would have clubbed him to within an inch of his life for even suggesting the idea of going off to train every weekend. He’d never admit it to her but he was pleased with the effect being eaten by Majin Buu had had on her attitude. His acceptance to every university he had applied to didn’t hurt in that respect, either.

Martial arts training was something he’d always enjoyed, even if he wasn’t overly keen on real competitive combat. After his humiliation aboard Babidi’s ship Gohan wasn’t going to make the same mistake by letting himself slip – most powerful fighter in the universe or not. He knew all too well just how fleeting that title could be.

On the whole, though, he had to admit that he wasn’t displeased with the unintended consequences the most recent threat to all life in the universe had on his life. For one thing, his father and Vegeta had finally gotten over their rivalry. That meant the Saiyan Prince begrudged Gohan significantly less as well; in fact, he seemed to hold a degree of respect for the young half-breed.

Then there was his father. His resentment over some of his father’s decisions aside, Gohan was elated to have him back. His mother had been exceedingly lonely in the years he was gone, and she turned all of her immense energy on her two sons. Goku was about the only person who could keep up with her on most days. Gohan was also glad that his little brother finally had a father. He’d tried his best to fill the void himself, but he had his own life to be getting on with. He was getting married later that year, and going away to college – he couldn’t be around for Goten forever.

Videl was another of those unintended consequences. The experiences at the tournament and afterward had brought them even closer together. Her father gave up his objections when he learned that Gohan was the one he’d been stealing the credit for defeating Cell from. Just two weeks after Majin Buu’s defeat, he’d proposed to Videl at his mother’s insistence. He wasn’t entirely sure he was ready, but he was happy nonetheless.

He smirked as Nimbus began descending toward the Capsule Corp. dome. Gohan didn’t mind, either, that thanks to the Elder Kai he was now able to trounce both his father and Vegeta – without transforming into a Super Saiyan.

He hopped lightly off of Nimbus a few feet off the ground. He gave the soft pillow of cloud a gentle pat before it zoomed off into the sky. The sun had fully risen now, so it was likely the Saiyan Prince was awake as well. Reaching out a hand as he reached the glass front doors, he pulled the cool metal handle only to find it was locked. Peering inside he saw that there was nobody in the lobby. A twinge of annoyance at their house doubling as a misshapen office building dissipated as Gohan smirked to himself.

Majin Buu had never had anyone escape his body after being absorbed, and for that matter, he’d never absorbed anyone as strong-willed as Gohan and Piccolo before. It had taken all of two days’ meditation for the latter to learn that the link which allowed Buu to tap into their power had worked both ways. He alerted his demi-Saiyan friend immediately. The Namek had an idea that while they were suspended inside of the pink beast’s body they may have subconsciously reached out and taken something from him.

It had taken the better part of a month before Gohan was able to unlock anything, but it was well worth the wait. Just five days prior he’d discovered he was able to instantaneously move from one place to another in a way very similar to the Kais’ technique. He hadn’t had much opportunity to test it out, so he was glad for this chance. Homing in on the familiar energy signatures he could sense inside, Gohan focused his energy inward as his body slipped into the dark void of nothingness.

***********************************

The surrounding room was swimming in and out of focus. His head felt like it had been cleaved cleanly in half. Eyelids blinked lazily over weary blue eyes, each opening bringing a fresh pounding of pain to his forehead. Slowly the rotating blades of the ceiling fan above came into view. He felt queasy.

Trunks sat up carefully and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. As he looked around at the bare room, however, he realized that this wasn’t his bed. This wasn’t his room. In fact, he didn’t recognize it at all. He tried to remember how he’d gotten there, but his aching head protested forcefully enough to convince him that it could wait. There were other ways to figure out where he was, after all.

His stomach gave a loud grumble.

There were also more pressing needs than knowing where he was and how he got there. He eased himself off the bed. As he stood, he felt a distinct weight shift at the side of his left leg that signaled something was stretching his pocket downward. He reached in and pulled out a small, white, rectangular case. Aware of what it was, he wasn’t surprised to find five capsules inside; he was surprised, though, that they were custom storage capsules and that he had them in the first place. He hesitantly placed them on the bedside table, hoping he wouldn’t forget they were there like he’d forgotten how he got them.

The carpet felt stiff under his bare feet as Trunks padded toward the closed door, as if it had scarcely been walked on. He stepped out into the cold tiled hallway to a most peculiar sight. It was familiar in dimension; certainly it resembled the inside of the Capsule compound. The walls were shining in early morning light, painted a soft peachy color rather than the familiar dull white. The walls that should have been bare were adorned with a number of – in his opinion – hideous, abstract paintings. This was odd.

The room he just exited was at the end of the corridor, so he made his way gently toward the opposite end, where it split two different ways. About halfway he heard the sound of chattering voices and slowed his pace. Trunks didn’t know where he was and how he got there. If he could glean anything from their conversation before he revealed himself he might not appear so vulnerable to these strangers with the bad taste in art.

As he inched closer, Trunks caught the scent of food. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Fried tomatoes. Sausage. His mouth watered as the speaking voice became discernible.

“…better drink all your milk young man or you won’t see Goten for a week!” He knew the voice of his mother at once, but it was still somehow different. It was more energetic and fiery, and he had no idea who she could be talking to or why she was even in this place. And what was a Goten? The questions raced through his mind and he leaned closer to listen.

“But it tastes like feet! I hate it!” the child shot back at his mother; Trunks privately agreed. Then he said imploringly, “Dad, help me out here!”

The background scraping noise Trunks hadn’t noticed stopped as a third voice demanded, “Drink your milk or I’ll beat the tar out of you.” The voice was harsh and gruff but muffled by what he assumed was a mouthful of food. He thought it sounded familiar, too, but he couldn’t place it as the scraping and clanking of dishware continued. He heard the young boy groan in defeat.

“So why do you think he came back this time?” asked the voice of Bizarro-Bulma. Her voice sounded curious, but also concerned.

“Perhaps to warn of a new threat,” the man grunted, still chewing. “Probably Majin Buu, in that case.”

“Oh, I hope not!” she cried. “Don’t you think he’s been through enough?”

The man said nothing and for a while only the sounds of eating could be heard. Trunks only felt more confused. The pain in his head was subsiding, but the conversation he’d overheard made no sense and he couldn’t get over the familiarity of the man’s voice. He was sure that if he could just hear him speak without food in his mouth he’d be able to tell who was speaking. Then perhaps he’d be able to piece something together. As the minutes dragged by, however, he teetered on the edge of showing himself. He was growing impatient.

There was a sudden disturbance in the room around the corner. Trunks held his breath, attentively listening for anything that might clue him in. Then a fourth voice spoke.

“Morning, everyone!” It was also strangely familiar, yet different. He knew who it sounded like, but knew it couldn’t be him. His thoughts didn’t go any further than that as speech broke out again.

“Hi, Gohan!” cried out the child and there was the distinct scraping of a moving chair. Trunks tensed up at the spoken name. There was a scuffling sound and a strangled yelp before the chair scraped again.

“Milk,” came a dangerous growl.

“Good morning, Gohan,” the female said happily. “How was your week?”

“Pretty hectic, actually,” he admitted. “Last exams before I head off to college in the autumn. Assuming I figure out how to pay for it, that is.”

“What?” she asked, incredulous. “Weren’t you offered any scholarships?”

“Not enough,” he said uncomfortably. “Unfortunately they don’t give out big scholarships for saving the planet,” he laughed nervously; a shiver ran down Trunks’s spine. “On the bright side, now that Summer’s here I’ll have a lot more time to train!”

“You’ll be here every day,” barked the older man, “or I’ll blast you to pieces!” Trunks knew the voice too well, but he couldn’t believe it. How could it be? Was he dead?

“Gohan, you’ll never guess who showed up last night!” The youngest one burst back into the conversation, blurting out the words he was apparently dying to say.

“Who?” asked the newcomer, audibly amused.

“Me! I did!” he shouted, ready to burst from the excitement. “Me from the future!”

“What?!” said the older boy in disbelief. His voice became sharper when he asked, “Why?”

“I don’t know,” said the gruff voice. The dawning realization that it belonged to his father was stifled as Vegeta said mockingly, “Why don’t you ask him? He’s been standing around the corner eavesdropping for at least ten minutes.”

Trunks sighed. Unsure whether or not he was dreaming, he knew that either way there was no point in trying to deceive his father. He stepped forward and into the entryway to the large kitchen, smiling sheepishly and blushing.

His eyes swept the room. He saw his mother at the sink, smiling brightly back at him. Her hair was much shorter, around ear-length, and she looked at least a decade younger. He saw his father seated at the table. Vegeta looked just as he always had and was smirking, staring fixedly at the future version of his son. Then, Trunks let his eyes come to rest on Gohan. His eyebrows lifted and he inhaled sharply.

He looked so much different than Trunks remembered. His hair was longer and stood up in long, straight spikes save for a bit in the front that hung over his forehead. The scars on his face were gone and he had both arms. His body was slighter and leaner, garbed in a loose, pale blue training gi. Trunks knew it was Gohan when blue eyes met black. The cheerful grin lighting up his face was unmistakable.

“Sorry,” Trunks managed to mumble, not tearing his eyes from the tall half-Saiyan standing across the room.

His mother was here, but she looked and acted differently. His father and Gohan were alive. Trunks furrowed his brow in concentration. He felt a tug at his side and looked down into eyes slightly smaller but identical in color to his own. He gasped as he saw the lavender hair and the face identical to what his had once been.

He was in the past.

Memories came flooding back, temporarily dissolving the room around him. The lake, reflecting the stars above; the inscription passing under his fingertips; the window, flecked with raindrops and illuminated by flashes of lightning; his mother, crumpled on the floor; a mug of tea swirling in his hand; blue eyes, streaking tears down a pained face. Trunks clutched at an adjacent countertop to hold himself up as understanding struck him.

***********************************

Gohan couldn’t help himself. Actually, he rarely could. His lips stretched outward as his face split into a broad grin.

He beamed at the time-traveling demi-Saiyan as he stepped into the kitchen, looking thoroughly embarrassed. Gohan was extremely glad to see him again; after all these years he’d stopped believing that he ever would. He looked exactly as Gohan remembered from the days of the Cell games, with his long lavender hair; vibrant, azure eyes; tall, lean frame; and sharp, regal features that disguised his kind and gentle nature.

The older version of Trunks had been an awe-inspiring figure for young Gohan. He had endured tragedy that Gohan could not fathom and arrived fortuitously to save his father and the planet from the same fate as in his own timeline. He was the consummate survivor who had conquered even time itself. He had been the first to tell Gohan that he could and would become a Super Saiyan, and he was the first to prove that Goku was not the only one capable of the feat.

Whenever Gohan had been feeling insecure or unsure of himself, Trunks always had a story about his future counterpart to reassure him. Gohan had found the older boy’s storytelling fascinating and a great source of motivation; the suffering that Trunks described drove Gohan like nothing else, not just to prevent it from becoming his reality but also to ensure that the time traveler’s trip was not in vain.

What Gohan found most alluring about him, though, was his empathy. Trunks always seemed to understand the frustration Gohan was experiencing in pushing his limits. Where Piccolo or his father would always give him training tips or some kind of advice Trunks gave him something else entirely: empathy. He didn’t make any further demands on Gohan, he didn’t tell him to push harder or how to do it. He simply listened to the younger boy and related how he’d experienced similar problems. Trunks had been a friend who Gohan could relate to and from whom Gohan felt no pressure.

Gohan was drawn back to the present as he heard a gasp. Trunks was looking at him. There was a moment where Gohan simply grinned at Trunks’s startled expression before the latter smiled sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled to the silent room. Gohan saw him processing the scene before he looked down at Chibi Trunks, who was eagerly tugging at his pants to get his attention, his eyes full of wonder.

The taller of the two lavender-haired demis gasped. His expression was one of horrified shock. He quickly grabbed the countertop to hold himself up. Gohan surmised that seeing himself at that age was something he hadn’t expected and that it held some untold implication for how and why he was in this timeline. The possibilities buzzed inside Gohan’s head until Trunks croaked, just loudly enough for the room to hear.

“What is the date?”

“The eighth of June,” Bulma said uncertainly, glancing at Vegeta. He was staring unsmiling at the elder Trunks.

“What year?” Trunks asked, his voice still quiet and croaky.

“Seven-seventy-four,” Bulma replied.

Gohan could practically hear the whirring of the time-traveler’s brain at work. Trunks’s knuckles were white with the strength of his grip, his eyes were moving rapidly from side to side under quick-blinking lids, and his breathing was shallow. He didn’t look surprised at the fact that he’d just jumped more than a decade back in time as much as frantic.

“Where is the time machine?” he asked suddenly. Gohan looked up. His voice was much calmer and he appeared to have quickly regained his composure. He was standing unsupported now, though he continued to stare at the floor. After a moment Gohan noticed that his eyes were flicking frequently at Vegeta; Gohan chanced a glance as well to find the pureblood still wearing that same impassive expression, his arms folded.

Bulma hesitated before answering. “Well,” she began. “Most of it is on the ground out behind the compound. Vegeta put out the flames before he pulled you out, and I think one of the engines might still be stuck in the tree.” She wrung her hands nervously around a towel. “I was going to haul it in but I thought you’d better see it first, I didn’t want to make things any worse.”

There was another long interlude of silence before Vegeta clicked his tongue impatiently. “Well? Aren’t you going to tell us why you’re here, or did you come all this way just to be a statue to adorn this kitchen?” he mocked, ever the gentleman.

“Vegeta!”

“Vegeta!”

Bulma and Gohan voiced their outrage in chorus at his gruff treatment. Trunks was unfazed.

“I…” he hesitated briefly, “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

“Oh, well that’s just fantastic. We’ll hope that it’s not some horrible new threat about to destroy all life on Earth that you wanted to warn us about while you take your sweet-ass time,” Vegeta spat irritably.

“It’s not,” Trunks was quick to assure him. “That much I do remember.” He furrowed his brow in concentration, his eyes shut tight. “Trust me.”

“Hn,” was all Vegeta could offer. Gohan glanced their way to see Bulma giving her husband a quelling look. Then, she turned to speak to the future incarnation of her son.

“So, Trunks,” she began.

“Yeah, Mom?”

“Yes?”

The lavender-haired namesakes looked at each other quizzically before breaking into near-identical grins.

“Mirai Trunks,” Bulma specified. She looked apologetically at the elder of the pair and asked, “I hope you don’t mind the nickname?”

“Not at all,” he said. There was a loud rumble of what sounded like thunder and Mirai blushed furiously. “I’m the one imposing, after all.”

Bulma slapped her forehead in mock exasperation. “Four Saiyans!” she sighed. “I’m going to have to hire a cook!” She smiled and indicated the table, “Go ahead and sit and I’ll get back to it. You must be starving!”

“Thanks a lot,” he said, genuinely grateful. She winked.

Gohan watched with his own trademark grin spread across his face. He was always amazed at how Bulma could diffuse the tension of a conversation, especially where Vegeta was concerned. The blur of little Trunks leaving the room, grateful for the distraction, did not escape his notice. He had a feeling his little brother would soon know of Mirai Trunks’s arrival.

“Only three Saiyans, woman, if all goes as it should today,” Vegeta chimed in. He didn’t see Bulma’s rotating figure, her eyes rolling at him as he turned to address Gohan. “My son will be eating your remains for dinner,” he declared. Gohan yawned pointedly, leaning his chair back on two legs with his eyes closed.

“If you keep starving the kid he’s never going to grow into that enormous head of his!” Gohan said. He opened one eyelid and the dark iris it concealed swept over the Saiyan Prince as he paused. “Well, like father like son I guess.” Vegeta smirked.

“Is that why you wear that clown suit, Gohan?” he asked.

Crash. Gohan had fallen backward in his chair, his feet kicking the table’s underside. He scrambled to his feet and shouted at a laughing Vegeta, “IT IS NOT A CLOWN SUIT!”

“You tell him, Gohan!” Bulma screamed while brandishing a still-sizzling frying pan. “It’s the pinnacle of modern fashion!”

Gohan blushed as he got back into his seat. Vegeta seemed to be satisfied with his provocation and was now back to smiling quietly as he stared at the ceiling. Gohan saw Trunks looking simply aghast at his father before realizing that he was staring and looking back down at his lap. Gohan couldn’t help but grin. This Trunks was so very different from the one he’d become familiar with. He was polite, innocent, reserved, and modest. As sometimes happened Gohan’s thoughts transferred to his mouth without filter.

“Man, it’s really great to see you again, Trunks,” he said. Trunks looked up.

“You too,” he said. He started to choke another syllable; as if he was going to address the person he was talking to by name but decided not to. Gohan noticed that the other demi didn’t seem to want to look at him. His grin faded a little.

“So, how long are you planning to stay?” he asked. Immediately he regretted it, remembering the wrecked time machine stuck in a tree.

“I’m not sure, it depends how long it takes for me to get the time machine working again. My mother invented and built it mostly on her own, so I don’t know how much I can do. Could be long-term,” he said, staring at his lap again. He spoke evenly, but the concern was evident in his face. “Could be forever,” he finished under his breath. Gohan thanked his Saiyan senses.

“Well, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like,” Bulma said as she heaped mounds of scrambled eggs, fried potato cubes, bacon, French toast, and assorted berries in front of Trunks. “We’ll help any way we can.”

Trunks’s eyes lit up at the sustenance placed before him and he gave a hurried, “Thank you!” before digging in. He ate slowly and composedly for someone of his heritage, Gohan thought, and wondered why the boy sitting across from him felt the need to use table manners with them.

No one spoke for a long while. Trunks, oblivious to everything around him as he ate, did not notice Gohan’s eyes fixed intently on him. Gohan still couldn’t land on an explanation for his fascination with the time traveler any more than he could stop himself grinning. Memories of some of the most fulfilling days of his life were swelling inside him: watching Frieza be defeated, preparing for the androids, training to become a Super Saiyan. As he came to the last, an idea struck him.

“Trunks, why don’t you train with us today?” he blurted out. Vegeta made a startled movement and Gohan looked warningly at him in case he tried to protest.

“Hm, yes,” the pureblood said thoughtfully. He smirked. “You can help me beat this brat once and for all.” Vegeta jerked a thumb at Gohan, who was in turn grinning at Trunks, who was in turn looking like a deer in the headlights. He swallowed the remaining food in his mouth hard.

“Well, alright,” he said tentatively. There was a scraping sound as Vegeta abruptly got to his feet.

“Let’s go, then. We’ve wasted enough time,” the prince commanded. Gohan also got up from his seat, which unlike Vegeta he tucked back under the table. They were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, staring down across the table at Trunks. With a start he also raised himself out of his seat and tucked it in, then stood waiting for them to lead him to wherever it was they were going.

“Step over here, please, Trunks,” Gohan said.

“Um, alright,” Trunks replied as he walked around the long, rectangular table to where his father and Gohan stood. Still not wanting to look the latter in the face, his eyes came to rest somewhere he knew they had even less place in being. Yet as he gazed at the firm area that crowned the back of Gohan’s muscular thighs he found he couldn’t look away. More surprising was what Gohan said next.

“Grab on.”

Trunks gave a start and couldn’t help himself. His fiercely-blushing face looked into Gohan’s, which was smiling kindly. The darker-haired demi was indicating his own shoulder with one hand.

“Ah, right,” Trunks said. He hesitated a moment before resting a hand on Gohan’s shoulder, gripping only lightly. He was again averting his face, his head spinning at what had just happened.

“I still hate this. It’s emasculating,” Vegeta said as the sound of rushing air filled the room. With a soft whistle the short Saiyan prince, the tall, dark-haired teenager, and the thoroughly embarrassed lavender-haired time-traveler vanished on the spot.

***********************************

Trunks’s knees buckled as they slammed hard into solid ground. It was all he could do to stop from falling flat on his face. His skin was tingling and he felt slightly winded. Looking around he noticed that the experience didn’t seem to bother Vegeta or Gohan: they were already stretching. This wasn’t their first time traveling by Instantaneous Movement and he supposed that they were accustomed to the sensations by now. Trunks wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to it.

“First time’s always the worst,” Gohan reassured, holding a knee to his chest as his boot grazed his spiky hair. Trunks looked away quickly, not trusting himself after the incident at Capsule Corp. just a few minutes earlier. Surveying the rocky, barren landscape he had the odd feeling that he’d been here before.

“This place looks familiar,” Trunks commented off-hand.

He knew it was pretty unlikely, and he couldn’t quite place just what it was about this place. He might have been more inclined to trust his instinct had he seen the panicked look on Gohan’s face as the dark-haired demi clapped his hands to his mouth to stifle a yelp. All he caught was a dismissive grunt from Vegeta as he continued warming up, furthering Trunks’s doubts.

“I guess these volcanic deserts in the middle of nowhere all tend to blend together after a while,” Gohan said in an abnormally high-pitched voice. Trunks chanced a glance to see that trademark grin as Gohan rubbed the back of his head absently. He looked away again quickly.

‘They look so alike,’ Trunks lamented to himself. He was almost instantly distracted, then, by an enormous, swelling energy. Looking up at the noise of impatience his father made he watched as Vegeta transformed. The Saiyan’s hair grew a bit longer and flashed as it turned a bright golden blonde. As the wind whirled around the man, sending puffs of dust outward, Trunks noticed that his father looked a bit different in this state than he remembered to go along with his drastically increased power level. When little electrical sparks began dancing in the glowing aura, Trunks gaped.

“You…” he blurted, pointing at Vegeta. “You’re like,” he paused, then moved his pointing finger in Gohan’s direction. “Like him?” he finished. He’d only sensed power of that kind once before.

“Hell no,” he spat, sticking his nose in the air and folding his arms. “I am a warrior, not a clown.” Trunks continued to stare in disbelief at Vegeta before the latter clarified, “But yes, I have ascended to the second level of Super Saiyan.”

“Wow, Father, that’s amazing!” Trunks gushed. He supposed the man’s trademark dedication must have paid off in the years since Cell.

“Hnh, don’t be too proud of me,” Vegeta said, the air still crackling around him. “As always, the Clown family is one or two steps ahead. Ready, Gohan?” he addressed the dark-haired demi-Saiyan, and Trunks was surprised to hear that gruff voice uttering his master’s name.

“Sure.” The nonchalance in Gohan’s voice broke Trunks’s reverent reverie. His aura was glowing faintly and the air seemed to be rippling his loose gi, but he hadn’t ascended to Super Saiyan. Trunks tried to reach out for his energy level, but found it indistinct and difficult to read. “Care to join in, Trunks? We could have a three-way!” Gohan suggested eagerly. Trunks hoped that he wasn’t blushing at the social naivety that exceeded even his own.

“I think I’ll just watch for now,” he said. “I just ate, and I’m still feeling a little woozy.” It was true, though the feeling had nothing to do with his explosive arrival at Capsule.

“Alright then,” said Gohan, crouching back into a defensive stance. “Ready when you are, Your Highness.” He was smirking confidently.

Trunks leapt a few dozen yards backwards just in time as Vegeta launched himself full-force at his sparring partner. He moved so fast that his son could barely keep up, and when he caught sight of the battling pair between clouds of dust he saw Vegeta putting up a vicious frontal assault.

To his astonishment, however, Gohan was blocking and dodging every punch and kick the older Saiyan threw at him – with one arm behind his back. Yawning, he vanished and re-appeared a few hundred feet in the air. Vegeta pursued him relentlessly, kicking up the intensity until––

WHAM.

Gohan had brought his unused right arm down on Vegeta who crashed straight down. Awe-struck, Trunks almost didn’t notice the dark-haired fighter he was staring at grinning and waving in his direction. How was this possible? He hadn’t even transformed into a Super-Saiyan. There wasn’t much time to ponder it, however.

Gohan did a vertical back-flip and kicked away a large ki blast that was approaching behind him quickly enough to meet with his forearms the blows of a not-so-large Vegeta that appeared in front of him. Vegeta was attacking with renewed vigor, and the two of them were becoming increasingly difficult for Trunks to follow. On the occasions that they did stay in one place briefly, he always caught a glimpse of Gohan giving him a thumbs-up or a two-fingered “victory” sign. The fifth time this happened, Vegeta had had enough.

“Stop toying with me!” he roared as his fury propelled a punch past Gohan’s defenses to connect with his jaw. The fighting paused as the taller fighter recoiled a little before quickly regaining his stance. He said something that Trunks could not hear from such a distance.

The ground began to vibrate slightly. Dust whirled around the ground below the airborne Saiyans. Gohan let out a short scream. A blast of heated air hit Trunks and, simultaneously, the wave of Gohan’s energy signal crashed over him. It was unfathomable, beyond anything he’d ever felt or imagined by far; yet, he still wasn’t a Super Saiyan. Trunks fell backwards into a sitting position.

Trunks felt another rush of hot air before the two started clashing with thunderous crashes. They were now moving too fast for him to follow, save when Vegeta was sent hurtling into the ground or a rock face.

Trunks sat on his hands and haunches, dazed. As the distracting shock of his father’s and Gohan’s newly-attained power subsided, his overall predicament returned to the front of his mind. He inclined his head to the sky and squeezed his eyes shut.

His mother’s last words to him rang dully in his mind. Vegeta had asked him why he was here, which he had answered truthfully – he didn’t really know. How he was here he had pieced together from the memories of the previous night, though they felt like a lifetime ago. Did she really think that sending him into this past where he would be constantly reminded of everything he never had would make him happy? He could hardly look at Gohan’s or Bulma’s counterparts in this timeline. And what about the effect his presence would have on his own counterpart?

Still, there was a persistent fear tugging at him. Maybe she had simply said those things to spare his feelings. He had seen the fear in her eyes that night; maybe she had sent him back to a time where there were people who could keep his strength in check. Trunks didn’t want to believe his own mother capable of that kind of betrayal, but he couldn’t rid himself of the thought any more than he could suppress the feeling that such would have been justified.

Now that he was here he had no idea what to do next. He wasn’t wanted in his own time, but he didn’t want to impose and interfere in a place where he didn’t belong. He wasn’t sure he could bear living here, no matter how many times he reminded himself that this wasn’t “his” Gohan. Just hours after silently promising him that he would move on, Trunks had already resumed dwelling on his deceased master’s memory. He knew he should’ve been looking over his destroyed time machine at this very moment, but he’d been utterly unable to say no to that grin which he knew so well. It disarmed him completely, and he wasn’t sure he trusted himself not to do something incredibly stupid.

Almost as bad was seeing his parents together, living with his younger doppelganger, much happier than any of them had been in his own time. It was hard not to resent the differences in how things had turned out. It did nothing to help him move on from the immense losses he continued to struggle with.

Lost in thought, Trunks mulled over his predicament and tried to sort everything out in his head. Consequently, he’d become oblivious to the battle that continued to rage nearby – not that he could follow it, anyway. It took him a moment to realize, therefore, that someone was shouting his name.

***********************************

“As you wish, milord.”

Gohan knew mockery to be an adequate way to irk Vegeta in defiance of a demand to take things more seriously. He smirked in satisfaction. Vegeta needed a little humiliation for making fun of his Saiyaman outfit. And for being insensitive towards a clearly troubled Trunks, of course. Gohan was the only one – aside from his unwilling father – who could teach the Saiyan Prince these lessons in a language he understood. That is, the fist. He wouldn’t go all the way, that was quite unnecessary, but he at least wanted to give Vegeta a roughing up to tire him out. He had the welfare of his surrogate younger brother in mind. Even the energy and enthusiasm of an 8-year-old demi-Saiyan couldn’t hope to match the Prince’s intensity.

“That’s more like it!” Vegeta said with apparent relish as he, too, pushed his power level upward.

Gohan’s muscles tensed as he ceased suppressing his energy and instead began focusing it. The comfortable warmth flowed through his muscles as he powered up. He let out a roar to match its intensity that signaled he was ready to move past the playful first stage of their sparring match.

Gohan looked quickly at Trunks, smiling at the bewildered look on the older demi’s face as he began to match Vegeta blow-for-blow. Soon the course of their training consumed his attention, though he found himself occasionally casting glances toward the figure on the ground some distance away. What he saw was concerning him.

Far from the looks of awe that had lit up his face a short time ago, Trunks now wore an expression of pained contemplation. Given his behavior at breakfast earlier, Gohan was getting an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach about the time-traveler’s arrival. There could only be a handful of explanations for why Trunks might lie about the reason for his return to this timeline.

These drifting thoughts were jarring Gohan’s concentration. Vegeta seemed to have noticed, too, as he landed a number of significant punches and kicks that Gohan should have blocked with ease. On the sixth such occasion, Vegeta relented in order to speak.

“You’re sloppy today, Gohan,” he said.

“Nah, I just feel bad. It must get boring never being able to hit me,” Gohan responded, waving his hand airily.

“If you want to fight us both so badly you should have asked. I’m sure he’d be happy to oblige,” Vegeta said. To Gohan’s horror he turned to regard the lavender-haired demi sitting on the ground below. “Trunks!” he barked.

“Vegeta, don’t!” Gohan hissed. He knew all the good it would do, but he was desperate.

“Trunks!” he repeated. “Hey, pretty-boy, I’m talking to you! Trunks!” Vegeta continued, more agitated. It yielded the desired result as Trunks came out of his trance, getting to his feet and looking quizzically at his father and Gohan. The latter smiled apologetically; he half-heartedly hoped that this would at least distract the other demi from whatever was troubling him.

“Get up here and help me––” Gohan still thought these words sounded strange in Vegeta’s harsh voice, “––kick the crap out of this brat!” Trunks looked taken aback for a moment. Then he shrugged.

“Alright,” he said. “But I don’t think I’ll be able to keep up with the two of you.”

Again the ground began to shake as a golden aura grew brighter and brighter around Trunks. His hair sprung up in blonde spikes as a circular wind whipped the sand off the ground around him. He was gritting his teeth and completely tensed up; Gohan realized that the older demi was pushing himself to his limits. A raucous scream echoed off the rock faces as Trunks gathered every ounce of his strength.

“Hn. He hasn’t gotten any stronger since he left,” Vegeta said. Gohan merely glared.

Vegeta was right, but he wasn’t going to validate his derision. It was clear that not as much time had passed in Trunks’s timeline as had in theirs. Trunks was still immensely powerful by any measure, moreso than either Goten or the younger Trunks by quite a margin. With a final burst of energy he launched from the ground and was at his father’s side. He was wearing a cocky smile so extraordinarily like the one next to him that it made a muscle twitch in Gohan’s cheek.

“Well,” Gohan said slowly, drawing himself up into an unnaturally straight posture and sticking his nose in the air. “I suppose it’s only fair that I give you the first punch,” he said, looking down at Trunks. He extended his hand in a gesture of “come-get-some”.

His opponents looked sideways at each other and, with a brief nod, vanished. Gohan caught Vegeta with an elbow to the stomach. The elder Saiyan had been trying to grab him from behind. Then the wind was knocked from his lungs as a fist met his stomach and arrogant teal eyes met his stunned dark ones. Gohan seized the opportunity. Trunks crashed to the ground, his head in agony from the brutal blow it had suffered by a genetically-hardened Son skull.

There was no time to celebrate as Gohan spun around to catch a kick from Vegeta, who was throwing a relentless barrage of punches that took quite an effort to block. Not enough effort to distract him from the ki blast quickly approaching from behind him. Smiling at Vegeta, he vanished with a whoosh and a whistle as the Saiyan was blasted by his son’s attack.

“I hope I didn’t give you a headache,” Gohan said thoughtfully. Trunks, whom he was standing behind, made a jerk of surprise. He spun around and made an all-out frontal assault. The expression of cockiness had been replaced by one of fierce determination, which might’ve made Gohan drift off with nostalgia if Vegeta hadn’t been aiming a two-footed torpedo-kick at his head.

Holding off Trunks’s punches with one hand, Gohan reached out and grabbed Vegeta by the ankles, swung him around, and clubbed him into Trunks’s side. Father and son slammed into a cliff a kilometer away. A drop of sweat trailed down Gohan’s forehead and onto his nose. He crossed his eyes to look at it.

“Wow! Guys, look! You made me break a sweat!” he called. “Hey Vegeta, maybe if you can get the rest of your family out here you can actually give me that beating you keep promising!”

Had Gohan not been laughing jovially at his own great humor, he might have observed that they had both been down far too long and were clearly up to something. Unfortunately, this did not occur to him until dozens of ki blasts started issuing from the ground below. He knew as very few of them went for him precisely what attack this was, and watched as they began to hang in mid-air around him. He sighed.

As the balls of energy made their sudden inward movement to blow him up, Gohan disappeared once more, reappearing with a whistle some distance above the explosion.

“Like I’m that slow,” he said with exasperation.

“Just in the head,” Trunks shouted as his foot connected with Gohan’s jaw, sending him flying to the ground.

“Nice hit,” Vegeta said, coming to a mid-air rest a few feet behind his son. “We seem to be getting quite a few of those in on him.”

“Thanks,” Trunks said. He blushed faintly. Praise from his father was a rare treat. He was glad his back was turned.

“That boy is not on top of his game today,” Vegeta went on, thinking aloud. “Maybe it would be better if––” he trailed off for a moment. “Yes,” he said firmly.

Before Trunks even registered the apparently incoherent conversation his father was having with himself, Vegeta was above him, his arms raised high and his hands clamped together in a double fist. He slammed down hard on a stunned Trunks, who hardly had time to react, and smashed into the ground. Vegeta hung in the air, cackling like a maniac.

“That was a cheap shot,” Gohan said. His voice was stern, not angry, but the emotion showed in his face.

“Yes, it killed me to do it but if you’re going to go soft on him then what use is that? He will benefit from a real challenge more than either of us,” Vegeta explained in a low voice. Some things about Vegeta would never change, it seemed.

“You two will fight me now,” Vegeta called so that Trunks could hear as well, ignoring Gohan’s admonishing glare.

“As you wish, my liege,” Gohan growled. Vegeta had the shortest of moments to contemplate whether he’d made a mistake before Gohan was on him.

A punch to the stomach; a kick to the ribs; a knee to the face; a punch to the jaw; Gohan grabbed Vegeta by the ankle and threw him, reeling in pain, far off to the side. Gohan was waiting for him, and kicked him hard, further into the sky. Again, Gohan was waiting for him. He grabbed onto Vegeta’s back and took him into a vertical dive. He flew as fast as he could, far faster than gravity could have pulled him, and at the last possible opportunity let go of his prey. Vegeta blasted into the ground with a deafening crash.

Gohan, unsatisfied, was already several hundred feet above the still-forming Vegeta Crater. He crossed his hands over his forehead and focused his energy to that point.

“Masenko––” the first word was quiet, but the last syllable came out in a mad scream. “––HAAA!”

A short but vast, intense beam of energy shot from his palm as he thrust his hands downward. It was far from enough to kill him, or even cause him serious harm, but Gohan hoped that Vegeta would get the point from the unusually vicious attack. Saiyan or no, getting the crap kicked out of him missed the point of a spar. It didn’t do him – or anyone – any good.

Gohan sighed and lowered himself to the ground, landing beside Trunks. The other demi looked shocked and at a complete loss for what to do. He knew Trunks could sense power levels and thus that his father wasn’t dead, but he was all too aware that it probably looked like harsh treatment. This Trunks had an immense respect for Vegeta and Gohan was suddenly uncomfortable that he might have trodden on the wrong ground.

The mount of rubble began to tremble and was blasted away in an outburst of golden energy. Vegeta, hanging amongst the falling dust and pebbles, eased himself back onto even ground and stood facing Gohan and Trunks. There was blood trailing from his forehead and lip. He looked sour.

“I think we’d better leave it there for today, Vegeta,” Gohan said. He eased his eyes towards the sky and continued, “It’s well past noon already and I’m getting kinda hungry!” As if on demand, his stomach grumbled, and he brought his hand up to absently scratch the back of his head, grinning apologetically.

“Fine,” he spat. “My son needs to stop lazing about the house, anyway.” Gohan’s eyes met Vegeta’s; he hoped his intention of wearing the older Saiyan down didn’t backfire. The only thing worse than a fresh Vegeta was a cranky one. Vegeta merely jerked his head and spit out a bit of blood. “Same time to-morrow, then?” he asked.

“As you please,” Gohan sighed. With that, Vegeta took to the sky and was soon far out of sight.

“It’s like having a child, with him, sometimes,” Gohan said wearily. Nevertheless, he was grinning. Trunks avoided his gaze, instead continuing to stare in the direction his father had disappeared.

“How did you do that?” he asked.

“Do what?” Gohan replied, puzzled.

“My father ascended to the next level of Super Saiyan yet you completely dominated him. You weren’t even trying the whole time, that was nowhere near your best, and you didn’t even transform. I didn’t think it was possible,” he explained. There remained a hint of that skepticism in his voice.

“Oooh, wow,” Gohan said, scratching his chin. “That’s going to take a long time to explain! Well, the short version is that I don’t need to transform into a Super Saiyan to channel my energy anymore,” he hesitated. He had reservations about telling the rest, but if Trunks was going to be here a while he’d hear it somehow. Gohan still felt he needed more time to think about how to lay it all out. “The long version can wait a while, I want to wash up and get something to eat!”

This time it was Trunks’s stomach that grumbled on prompt. Gohan grinned.

“Well I can’t say no to that,” sighed the lavender-haired demi. Gohan assumed he was talking about his stomach.

“Let’s go get washed up, then,” Gohan shouted over his shoulder as he ran to scoop up his somehow-unharmed duffel bag. He leapt back over to Trunks in one, graceful arc. His face alight with excitement he said, “Come on, I know just the place!”

Before Trunks could even think, Gohan had him by the forearm and he was overcome with a sick, swirling feeling. A short second that felt like a lifetime and his feet slammed hard into the ground. Again, he managed to keep himself standing but he felt distinctly winded, his skin tingling.

“You need to give me a bit more warning when you’re going to do that,” Trunks complained.

“Oh, sorry about that!” Gohan laughed. He was already pulling his shirt over his head.

They were standing on the edge of a vast lake. It sat nestled in a valley almost completely surrounded by mountains, lush greenery growing around much of the shoreline. Across the lake was a grassy slope down to the lakebed, bare except for a single, ancient tree whose broad-leafed canopy cast a vast shadow on the ground below. The water rippled slightly in the breeze and sparkled deep blue under the afternoon sun.

As Gohan tossed his shirt aside onto the bag in which he kept his change of clothes, a thought occurred to him. Trunks didn’t have a change with him – actually, he wasn’t sure if Trunks had brought anything with him from the future. He didn’t generally swim naked, but he also didn’t want his friend to feel uncomfortable doing so. Without a second thought Gohan dropped his pants and boxers, then slid the boots off his ankles.

“Last one in’s a rotten egg!” he shouted as he gave a great running jump and dove into the center of the lake.

***********************************

A thousand thoughts flitted through Trunks’s head. This was the place. He had just been here. That tree, slightly shorter and less broad, was still unmistakable. The incorrigible sounds of life that filled the trees and hills of the valley beneath Mount Paozu were all too familiar. Gohan, this Gohan, had no idea what he had done in bringing him here. How could he?

It was like every event was shaping itself to make Trunks’s fulfillment of his master’s last request as difficult as possible. He shuddered as a breeze whipped through his hair. He had to pull himself together. If he didn’t maintain his presence of mind in the here and now it would only create more problems for him. He took a deep breath.

Trunks looked around, intending to nonchalantly ask Gohan where they were, and he only caught his jaw mid-drop. Perhaps returning his focus to the here and now wasn’t the best plan. Gohan was running towards the lake, completely naked.

“Last one in’s a rotten egg!” Gohan shouted, jumping 20 feet into the air and diving straight down into the center of the lake.

It was a good thing the other demi-Saiyan was underwater, Trunks thought, or he might have noticed the deep, calming breaths the older boy was now taking. Or worse, the shifting fidgets of his legs. He glanced over to make sure he’d seen right, and all of Gohan’s clothes were indeed shed and piled near his bag. He groaned. Then Gohan surfaced with a splash.

“Whew!” he exclaimed. “The water’s perfect,” he called, slopping water over his head.

Trunks pulled his shirt over his head, taking care to fold it meticulously. Aside from the distraction, it provided him with precious seconds to get himself under control. He silently damned Gohan’s oblivious innocence. He sat on the ground and slowly unlaced his boots. Slipping them off, he stood back up and untied his pants. He stepped out of them, folded them carefully, and took a couple of deep breaths. Stacking his pants on his shirt, beside his boots, he slid his boxers off his hips, kicked them unceremoniously to the side, and ran at the lake. Imitating Gohan he jumped into the air, then dove in feet-first.

Trunks’s body screamed in protest as he plunged into the frigid depths. Maybe he just wasn’t used to bathing in mountain lakes like the Sons, but he had to wonder how Gohan had managed to move in the ice-cold water. He wouldn’t have to worry about any betrayals from his groin, at least. He popped his head back above the surface, his hair sopping wet and clinging to his face, to find Gohan grinning broadly. Damn him.

“You call this perfect?” Trunks said, his teeth chattering.

“No doubt,” Gohan said without breaking his grin.

Trunks wondered if Gohan was still referring to the water temperature. Instead of letting his mind convince itself of what it had wanted Gohan’s words to mean, he began shaking his head vigorously. Huge droplets of water went flying from his hair in all directions, and Gohan disappeared under the water with a playful yelp. Trunks stopped, feeling dizzy. Holding the sides of his head in a vain effort to steady it, he didn’t hear the other demi emerging silently from the water behind him.

Feeling himself dunked underwater by the forceful hand on his head, Trunks’s first instinct was to squeeze his eyes shut – he was afraid of what he might see down there. His second instinct was to mentally mope that his hair was now soaking wet again. It always took so long to dry. The pressure was released, and he kicked back to the surface. Gohan was laughing madly.

“I’ll get you back for that,” Trunks spluttered, his mouth full of water and hair. He knew he wouldn’t be able to make good on the threat now, when Gohan had his guard up, but that was fine. Trunks knew how to wait for vengeance.

“I’ll be waiting,” Gohan laughed, splashing an exasperated Trunks as he tried to wring water out of his hair. “How about that food, then?” Gohan asked cheerily.

“Alright,” Trunks said with an embellished growl. “I don’t blame you for wanting to get out of here before I drown you.”

Before he knew it, Trunks was plunging downward again, the other’s hand planted atop his head. His eyes raked over the bluey-green-tinted chest, stomach, hips… eek! He closed his eyes at once and as quickly as it had come, the hand forcing him down was gone. He shot back to the surface to see Gohan doing a graceful (and revealing) backstroke towards the shore. Blushing furiously, all he could do was grumble under his breath as he swam in the same direction.

Gohan was blasting and evaporating the water from his body with little waves of ki. Trunks tried to do the same, but found his hair kept simply dripping all over him. With a sigh he flipped his head forward and squeezed as much water out of it as possible, then tied it into the best ponytail he could manage. His unruly bangs still curtained his face.

Gohan was now wearing khaki pants, a beige shirt, and a rather hideous yellow sweater-vest. Trunks tried not to snigger, but failed, and had to cover it up with a fake sneeze. His pajamas-turned-training clothes weren’t exactly the pinnacle of fashion this season, but he’d never honestly believed anyone would dress… like that. A flutter of a memory of the morning’s beakfast made him wonder if this was the “costume” his father had referred to.

“Come on, this way,” Gohan said, walking around the edge of the lake. Trunks groaned inwardly. Of course, it was his favorite place in the whole world too. They were the same person to an extent, after all. Trunks followed along silently.

“Here we go,” Gohan said, coming to a stop on the edge of the shade the tree provided from the sun, still high in the sky. “No better place for a picnic!” he assured.

“Is that so?” Trunks asked absently. He was avoiding looking at Gohan again. ‘This is too much,’ he thought to himself, gazing with unfocused eyes towards the mountains beyond the lake.

“Yup!” Gohan affirmed, now resting his head in his palm. “Now, where to get food…” he trailed off for a moment. “No, no, no,” he said slowly to himself. “No, ah – wait! He’s not training so he must be…” Gohan snapped his fingers with a look of triumph and said, “I will be right back, with food!” Trunks felt a slight whooshing of air and a low whistle as Gohan vanished completely.

It felt so strange being here, not just because it was a different time. If he looked over the hill he’d see the house still inhabited and kempt, the road paved, the scene cozy. Even as he sat here the tree beside him looked healthy, the whole world seemed more alive, happier. Or perhaps that was what he perceived as the difference, because in one world he visited this place without Gohan and in the other he visited with him. It was alarming what an effect this simple locale could have on him.

Gohan reppeared as suddenly and in the same fashion as he had disappeared. He was smiling broadly behind a tablecloth he was holding in his teeth. In each hand he balanced a plate stacked high with fat sandwiches. Pressed between his arm and his side was a bottle of what appeared to be red wine. Yet, something wasn’t right, here.

“Gohan, where did you get all this and why is your back smoking?” Trunks asked, as there was indeed a trail of smoke issuing from behind his shoulders.

“Uh-jee-ah,” he managed from behind the tablecloth. “Hel’,” he said, offering the two plates to Trunks, who took them. Gohan set the wine down as he spread the tablecloth wide over the grass. Trunks put the plates down and sat.

The dark-haired demi had other plans, though; looking momentarily stunned he shouted, “Idea!” and again vanished from sight. He reappeared in the same spot moments later, cradling two dozen huge, red apples in his arms and looking the pure embodiment of glee. Trunks, who watched from the corner of his eye in spite of himself, couldn’t help but smile, too.

“You really like that teleporting trick, don’t you?” Trunks asked.

“Of course,” said Gohan, looking up curiously from the apples he was stacking into a neat pyramid. “Every kid’s favorite toy is his newest one!” he said. Trunks chuckled after a moment.

“I guess that’s the sort of analogy I’d expect from someone who has teddy bears on his underwear.”

“At least I don’t wear my hair like a girl,” Gohan remarked as he triumphantly placed the last apple on top. Checkmate.

Trunks pulled a few locks of hair in front of his eyes. “You think so too, huh? Maybe I should cut it,” he said, crestfallen.

“Nah, I was only kidding,” Gohan said, visibly surprised by the sudden change in Trunks’s demeanor. “I think you look better with longer hair. It makes you look older and more, er… warrior-like,” he said, fidgeting a little. Breaking the tension he grabbed an apple and took half of it off in one bit. “And don’t worry, the teddies forgive you,” he said as he looked to select a sandwich.

Trunks picked up a turkey and swiss sandwich on rye as he pondered that. So was that how Gohan viewed him? The sword-wielding Super Saiyan warrior from the future? He wasn’t sure what to make of that. He supposed Gohan had been young and impressionable by figures that seemed larger than life. Trunks had a hard time thinking of himself in such a way.

“Hey are you going to finish that today, or what?” Gohan blurted. Trunks looked up to see him holding a sandwich in each hand, his mouth bulging. “You better eat like you mean it or you’re not going to get any!”

Trunks chuckled. “Master Gohan always used to tell me that if we were going to train like Saiyans, we ought to eat like humans,” he explained, taking another measured bite. Gohan nodded.

“My mother’s words, almost exactly,” he said. “I used to live by them, too, until Goten came along. I’d have starved to death long ago if I didn’t get used to eating like this,” Gohan explained before swallowing another sandwich whole.

“Goten?” Trunks said, bemused; that was twice he’d heard about this person now. Gohan slapped his palm to his forehead.

“Of course! Goten is my little brother––” Trunks gasped as Gohan went on, “––who was born shortly after you left, after the Cell games. He’s about a year younger than you, in this timeline. Looks a lot like Dad. Eats like him, too,” he said, rubbing his chin as he thought of his family.

The change in dynamic stunned Trunks into silence; Gohan had a real brother. The small alterations to history in this timeline were already sending ripples that would go on forever through the fabric of time. It was unnerving to have exerted that kind of influence almost unwittingly.

They went on eating, Trunks a bit more hastily, and passing back and forth the bottle of wine for some time. Trunks wondered just how much else had changed. When the food was gone he was ready with a barrage of questions, but Gohan seemed to think it was his turn now. They both laid back, their arms folded behind their heads and stared at the spots of blue sky visible between the gaps in the tree’s branches.

“So what happened?” he asked abruptly, catching Trunks off-guard. “When you returned,” Gohan clarified. “We were worried when we didn’t hear from you again.” Trunks felt a wave of guilt overcome him.

“I did it,” he said simply. “I killed them both. Quickly. I destroyed Gero’s lab, and when Cell came a few months later, I killed him,” he said, unable and not really wanting to keep the hatred out of his voice. “With both timelines safe I didn’t want to risk intermingling them again. I kept the time machine safe at my side where it could be protected and intended to never use it again,” he went on. The bitterness in his voice was almost tangible, heating the air.

“But you did,” Gohan said gently. “Why?”

“I already told you all, I don’t know why.” Trunks gulped. His throat was tightening and urging him. “It wasn’t my choice,” he croaked.

“Ah,” said Gohan. “Then, do you have any theories on why or how you fell from the sky over Capsule Corp. this morning?” he asked. There was no pressure in his voice. Trunks damned the younger demi’s compassion and his insight.

“Several.”

“Do you want to talk about them?”

“Not really.”

“Okay.

Trunks felt horrible for being so terse. Gohan was the one person here he wanted to open up to most and also the one person that he could never allow himself to open up to. There was too much potential to cause confusion for the both of them, and while he knew his own life couldn’t get much more destroyed, Trunks wanted to spare that of Gohan.

“Trunks?” Gohan prompted suddenly, rolling onto his stomach to look into those radiant azure eyes. “Does it have anything to do with why you’ve refused to look at me all day?” he asked, not waiting for an acknowledgment. Trunks’s blood went cold. Of course he’d have noticed.

“I, uh…” Trunks stammered. Words failed him. He cast around for the right words, but as none came, Gohan spoke again.

“It’s okay Trunks, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked, it was just bothering me,” Gohan said quickly to diffuse the sudden tension.

“No, it’s fine, it’s just that, well, you look,” Trunks paused and took a deep breath. He sounded like an idiot. “You just remind me of him. My master, Gohan. You look and act a lot alike. No surprise there, I guess,” Trunks said and he gave a feeble laugh. Gohan didn’t smile.

Trunks sighed and went on, “He meant a lot to me. He was my father, my brother, my best friend, my mentor. He was everything to me, and he gave everything for me. Killing the androids and Cell didn’t bring me any kind of closure, and when I see you it’s a reminder of all that I lost.” Trunks had said more than he meant to, but the feelings bubbled so close to the surface that they flowed easily from his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” Gohan said. “For bombarding you with all of this. I didn’t mean it to be some kind of interrogation, you just look like you’ve got a lot on your mind and it doesn’t do to keep too many secrets. Just thought you might need to talk.”

“Thanks, Gohan. Maybe I’ll take you up on that when I’m not so confused myself,” Trunks said.

“Oh, speaking of that, I promised you a lengthy story, didn’t I?” Gohan asked, his chin in his hands. Trunks nodded, though he still didn’t make eye contact.

“Well,” Gohan began, “I guess it all started about a month ago, now, at the 31^st World Martial Arts Tournament. Dad was resurrected for a day…”

***********************************

“…Now all that’s left of him his Good Buu, who most of us just call Buu. He lives with Videl’s dad, Mr. Satan, in hiding for now. Dad promised that when a year has passed and we can use the Dragonballs again we’re going to erase all memory of the whole incident so that he can live here in peace.

“So that’s the story! All in such a short span of time, too, it’s almost hard to fathom – and I was there!” Gohan said. His voice was getting hoarse but he was still full of energy. “So, any questions?”

“Mr. Satan? Really?”

“Yeah, if you can believe it!” Gohan chuckled. “He turned out alright in the end, really, helping Dad and Vegeta, pacifying Buu. He even gave his blessing for me to marry Videl,” Gohan said cheerily, scratching the back of his head without realizing what he was doing. Several long moments of silence passed.

He looked down at Trunks, who was just laying back, frowning slightly, too taken aback to express any serious thought. Gohan had warned him that it was a long story, hadn’t he? He shifted uncomfortably. This was Bulma’s son, he hoped he wasn’t thinking of exactly what Gohan was afraid he was thinking.

“Why did you say Babidi came to Earth again?” Trunks asked. Yep, that’s what he was thinking.

“To resurrect Majin Buu,” Gohan said nervously.

“But you said Majin Buu was sealed away and hidden,” Trunks said. Gohan could’ve punched himself.

“Did I?” he said evasively.

“He was hidden on Earth, wasn’t he?” Trunks asked quietly.

“I – uh, yes,” Gohan conceded. “Yes, Bibidi had placed the sealed Majin Buu on Earth before the Supreme Kai killed him. Supreme Kai hid it deep underground, near the planet’s core, hoping it would be safe.”

“But it wasn’t,” Trunks said, his voice straining. “And this happened …”

“Millions of years ago,” Gohan finished his sentence for him with a sigh. He knew the conclusion Trunks had reached. The lavender-haired demi got up and began pacing.

“Well, my mother’s intentions aside, at least now I know the real purpose of this little encore tour of mine,” Trunks said savagely. “No good deed goes unpunished!” Gohan stood up, alarmed by his friend’s anger.

“Trunks, calm down,” Gohan said, placing his hands on the other’s shoulders and forcing eye contact. If he was going to remind Trunks of his old master, he could at least exploit it for his own good.

“That’s very easy for you to say, Gohan! You don’t have to live with the guilt of not being there to protect them, of maybe never knowing what became of your world,” he lashed out. “And it’s all because of some stupid, nearsighted …” he trailed off into incoherent grumbling for a moment.

“Listen to me, they need an enormous amount of energy to resurrect Majin Buu. As the strongest person by far on Earth in your timeline, you were in danger and endangering the entire Earth without even knowing it. And if Majin Buu was somehow resurrected, you would have simply been killed, along with everyone on Earth,” Gohan said. His voice was honest and gentle but authoritative.

“This is not your fault, any of it. You won’t get anywhere blaming yourself for anything that has happened or might. Now, there’s only one way you’re getting back there, right?” Gohan asked.

“The time machine, yes,” Trunks said, looking at his feet.

“On which you can set the precise date and time you wish to arrive, no?”

“That’s right.”

“Then relax; it can be set to return to the very day you left, if necessary. We’ll figure out a plan. You saved this world, Trunks, and we’re not going to let yours burn,” Gohan reassured him. He took his hands off of Trunks’s shoulders and looked up. The sun was getting pretty low in the sky, he’d need to head home very soon.

Gohan watched as Trunks paced some more, then retreated towards the tree. He sat at the base of the trunk, his knees pulled to his chest as he watched the small ripples across the darkening lake. He was repressing so much, Gohan was sure, and must be in agony. He’d gleaned that Bulma had sent him against his will back to this timeline, apparently without a reason, and that struck him as very odd. As he watched the expressionless, unblinking face, he couldn’t help himself.

“Will you be alright, Trunks?” Gohan asked.

“Fine,” he said flatly. Gohan wished he wouldn’t do that.

“Alright, well, I’ve got to head back to the house or my mother will murder me. I’d invite you for dinner, but, well, it’s not the most comfortable and relaxing event – especially when Videl is over,” Gohan rushed. He felt horrible. “Why don’t you head back to Capsule and you and Bulma can look over the time machine?” he suggested.

Trunks didn’t respond. He simply continued to stare ahead, hardly blinking, not a muscle twitching. Gohan, defeated, began climbing the hill back to the Son home.

“Good-night, Trunks,” he said sadly.

“Do you mind?” Trunks asked, and Gohan turned around, letting silence convey that he did not understand. “If I just stay here, by the lake, for a while? It’s nice here,” he said. His voice was dreamy, distant, and calm. Gohan grew more worried.

“Sure thing. If you need anything, well, you know where the house is. Anything, Trunks,” Gohan said, and he began to turn back towards the house.

“Thanks a lot, Gohan.”

“Any time.”

As he reached the top of the hill, Gohan turned and looked back at the unmoving figure whose side was just barely visible at the base of that lush old oak. He heaved a sigh and headed for the house. Before he found out about Trunks’s arrival that morning, Gohan had been looking forward to dinner tonight and hearing about Videl’s most recent plans for what he was told would be the happiest day of their lives. But now he wondered how he would focus on that considering everything he and the time traveler had just been discussing.

He had his father back, and so did Goten. He was going to university and getting married, his mother’s greatest dreams fulfilled. Yet all Gohan could think about was the lavender-haired demi-Saiyan curled up beside the lake.

[[ End-notes: Okay, I know what you’re thinking, and yes. That was a little bit longer than the first one. I took the most common complaint and I tossed it out the bloody window! Sorry! I tried to listen to every other criticism, so please by all means leave me a lot more if you hate something or other.

Many many many many huge thanks to Veronica for all her help with this one. There were certain scenes that I just hated and she really bounced me along. Always a source of ideas and inspiration. Oh, and she even beta-read. Seriously, how cool is that? ]]

Author’s Notes: Begins roughly one year after Mirai Trunks returns to his own timeline; he defeated Cell 3 weeks after defeating the androids, rather than 3 years. Present timeline setting will be roughly one month after the defeat of Majin Buu. Warning in advance that there will *eventually* and *probably* be sex and some violence. There will be depressing discussion of canon deaths and possibly a few new ones, but the boys are safe.

Chapter 1: Behest

Trunks rolled the still-twitching mass of steel over in the soft soil. It deactivated with a defeated sort of whir and ceased moving. He lifted it gingerly onto his shoulder, wincing a bit as the scalding metal touched the bare skin above his black tank top. Then he trudged his way back to the misshapen dome structure on the opposite side of the fields. ‘Third time this month,’ he thought, casting a glance at the robot as he lugged it into the workshop.

Pressing the buzzer to indicate to his mother – doubtlessly busy elsewhere inside the old Capsule Corp headquarters – that he needed to see her, Trunks lifted a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow and re-tuck his silky purple bangs behind his ears. It had been nearly a year since he’d returned to his own timeline and defeated the last legacies of Dr. Gero and his world was well on its way to recovery. His family, or what was left of it, had again taken its place at the forefront of technology and was providing essential robotics solutions to relieve the strains of depopulation and devastation.

It was tedious work that he still felt somewhat unaccustomed to. While he’d spent a far greater portion of his life helping his mother with the various projects she undertook in their underground hideaway, he’d always felt more fulfilled in the short spans that he got to train with Gohan and the Z-Fighters of the past timeline. It was no secret here who had finally stopped the androids’ reign of terror, yet Trunks was vaguely aware of the fear with which people looked at him. He couldn’t blame them for fearing that which they couldn’t understand, but it still unsettled him. He felt like an outsider, even here in the city he grew up in.

The brooding look on his face must have shown as Bulma rounded the corner into the sunlit workshop. “Boy Trunks, if I didn’t know better I’d say you didn’t enjoy this,” she teased with a wink as she approached the defunct model. “Oh, this guy again?” she sighed.

“Yes, again,” said Trunks with an exaggerated grimace. “It only knocked down one row of corn this time, but it also completely totaled two of the harvesters,” he nodded toward a heap of twisted metal that certainly did not look like a corn-harvesting robot.

“Alright, this is the last time. It’s got to be something with the behavioral processor and I want to know what’s wrong here,” his mother’s tone was all business but he could see the grave look as she closely examined the smooth chassis: she was afraid the next malfunction would involve a person. That and she was just a bit too proud, taking any malfunction of her creations as a personal slight. Trunks suppressed a smile.

“This is always my favorite part,” Trunks said as he delicately started to pry what they called the unit’s “head” apart. The part he was looking for was wedged deep inside, connected to over a dozen different modules and took extreme care to extract. His lips parted slightly, and he clicked his tongue in impatience as he continued to wriggle the small module out of place.

Bulma was all too aware of her son’s predicament. He’d lost everyone, with the exception of her, and Gohan’s sacrifice in particular took its toll on the young demi-Saiyan. There was no one left in this world that was like him, with whom he could spar or interact or even simply converse. He missed the company of those his age. Most people looked at him with fear and she knew it ate at him. He had powers that nobody else could – or should, in their minds – attain, and after the androids the possibility of another such being picking up their line of work was alarming. What they didn’t realize was that this boy had suffered just as much as them. Despite his extraordinary talents and intellect, he’d never had a chance to go to school, go to college, to pursue a career, to find love, to simply live. In that regard he was less fortunate than even she had been, and she regretted it deeply.

Of course, this absence of normalcy brought its own experiences: he’d learned things most kids his age would want nothing to do with. He’d built machines and robots of all sorts, and even had the entirely unique experience of traveling to the past in a time machine they had built together. Bulma allowed herself a small smile at the memory of Trunks’s return. He looked so much like a man, but there’d been something else underlying his slightly changed appearance, intangible. As she endured countless hours of him recounting all the things he’d seen in just a few short days in the past – his favourites to tell her about several times daily usually involved Vegeta or the young Gohan – it began to dawn on her just what in his attitude seemed so different.

For the first time she could remember, he was happy.

His mood turned to jubilation when he took his revenge on Androids #17 and #18, as well as the monster Cell. As peace returned to the Earth, however, so did the young prince’s subdued manner. With each passing day set between his present and his exhilarating adventures in time, Trunks withdrew further into a sort of depression. Bulma watched helplessly as his moods became more restrained, his sociability dropped off almost completely, and he spent the days wandering the compound or countryside, perhaps symbolically looking for something to do. She suggested that he visit the past a few times, and while she was sure he wanted to, he would not. Whether for her sake, or because he didn’t want to tease himself, or perhaps because he felt it wasn’t his place, Trunks had never seemed to seriously consider it.

With another sad smile at her son, hunched over the task he’d immersed himself in, Bulma decided it was worth another shot. Trying to sound casual she spoke, “You know, Trunks. You don’t have to stay here forever.”

“Huh?” Trunks responded idly, apparently paying no attention. There was a short pause, a click, and his hands emerged from within the large robot cradling a small rectangular box with many connectors hanging off. He wrapped it in a dingy cloth before beginning to wipe his hands, and asking, “What do you mean, ‘[I] don’t have to stay here forever’?”

“Trunks, you’re twenty-one years old,” her tone was matter-of-fact but her vibrant blue eyes regarded him imploringly. “When I was your age I was in college, I’d had a lifetime of adventures with Goku, I had friends, I had a boyfriend!” she exclaimed, her voice rising steadily, and on the last word she averted her eyes and blushed a little. “I just think that you’ve more than earned the right to live for yourself for once.”

Trunks hesitated and allowed his eyes to rake over his mother’s face. Quietly he asked, “What about you?”

She was prepared for it this time. “What about me? I can take care of myself, and I’m not some big fat anchor holding you in place,” she shot back, inflecting some irritation into her voice. Maybe this could work? “I just want you to be happy, son,” she whispered as she lovingly brushed a few loose strands of silky, lavender hair out of his eyes.

Trunks met the blue gaze so similar to his own. He knew exactly what she was getting at and that she knew it tempted him, but he’d made a promise to himself. He was not so selfish: nobody deserves to be so alone, especially not his mother. “I won’t abandon you,” he said flatly, before giving her a quick hug and heading out the door back to the fields.

‘He’s so stubborn. Just like his father,’ she thought to herself with a sigh of affection. ‘He’ll torpedo his own life until I kick the bucket, or else until I figure out how to make him leave.’ She continued to peer, eyes unfocused, in the direction her son had just departed, until a small look of shock crept up her face, quickly replaced by a devilish grin.

“Oh, Bulma, you are a genius,” she declared to no one in particular as she retreated back up the staircase.

***********************************

Tipping the last misshapen, mountainous block of concrete into the massive dumpster at the edge of the clearance site, Trunks dusted off his hands and looked to the sky. He didn’t give a second thought to the feat of strength he’d just displayed – he never did – which was again eliciting stares of awe from his co-workers. The sky was mostly cloudless, except to the west, and reflected in his blue eyes by the light of fading sunlight. Glancing at his watch, he realized that his shift had already ended. He turned and headed for the short row of lockers where the rest of the crew was mumbling anxiously.

“I’m not so sure; he’s just a kid…” Trunks overheard one of the men whispering before being hushed at his approach.

The young demi-Saiyan pretended not to have heard as he opened his locker. He lifted the unnecessary, bright orange protection helmet from his head, allowing the loose strands of lavender hair that were too short to clump into his ponytail to curtain his face. He pulled a blue Capsule Corp. jacket over the black tank top he always wore as he snapped his locker shut. Giving a brief, absent nod to the men whose conversation he’d been ignoring, he strode toward the gate in the tall white fence that enclosed the worksite.

“Hey, kid, wait up,” someone called out. He heard the voice, but it didn’t register until someone punctuated it with his name, “Trunks!” The lavender-haired youth turned to face his coworker, a look of slight confusion on his face. He seldom spoke to any of them, and he wondered at first how they knew his name before remembering that he was still somewhat famous – or infamous, he wasn’t sure which.

“Hey there, er,” Trunks broke off as it occurred to him that the shorter, somewhat slighter man in front of him was not famous. He didn’t know his name.

“Patrick,” he said with a small grin, holding out his hand. After the slightest hesitation Trunks took it in his and shook. “I know we haven’t talked much, but me and some of the guys are headed over to the pub down on Fifth from here and you’re welcome to join us,” Patrick blurted. His invitation was fast enough to be almost unintelligible. He looked downright uncomfortable.

Trunks considered him a moment, his face expressionless. If he was honest with himself the offer was tempting. He’d never been approached for a social outing like this before and he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t enjoy it. He was on the verge of accepting when reality came crashing back to him: he couldn’t really be himself around these men, a truth reflected when he glanced at the group hovering in the background. There was apprehension etched all over their faces, and he knew why. With a sigh, Trunks shook his head.

“No, thank you,” he said with a cordial smile. “I have an errand to run and I really do need to get home. Maybe some other time,” he finished with a quick look at the group waiting behind Patrick and again turned to make his way.

‘It wasn’t a lie,’ he reminded himself, shuffling his feet a bit on the pavement. He couldn’t blame them for not understanding. Trunks was, after all, the last of a dead race on an alien world. He’d known for years now – since Gohan’s death – that he was completely alone. There was always his mother, of course, but there were things he could never talk to her about. A doting mother was hardly objective company for a demi-Saiyan lacking a sense of purpose.

Purpose was definitely something Trunks had felt like he’d been lacking since disposing of 17, 18, and Cell. His entire life had been defined by the struggle against the androids, the pace set by their rampage against humanity. Now that the world was safe, the cities being rebuilt, and life on the long road to recovery he felt like he’d lost meaning in it all. Certainly, he had learned enough in his years with his brilliant mother to put to practical use, but without the constant pressure in the back of his mind he felt almost restless, like the world wasn’t moving quickly enough.

The world was moving very quickly, though, especially here in New West City. The number of clearance sites where buildings had collapsed or rubble was otherwise obstructing had dwindled to a handful. A majority of the buildings, including the famous Capsule Corporation dome, had been restored, though the few high-rises remained severely damaged and ghostly. The streets were all cleared and open to traffic, and small businesses lined the windows as people put their skills back to work. The progress was extraordinary, as was the way the survivors continued to band together to make the best of what was left, but Trunks wished the rebuilding and reminders would soon be over, and the world returned to normal.

He chuckled to himself at the thought. He was unsure how he defined a normal world when he thought about it. What threshold was there that needed to be crossed so that he’d feel society was sufficiently healed? Perhaps it was when the cities started growing again, rather than rebuilding what was within their devastated limits. Or perhaps he just wanted the world to bury the whole wretched android affair and never be reminded of it again, so that he could do the same.

‘If only it were that simple,’ Trunks thought to himself, not noticing the car that almost ploughed into him at the cross-walk. He didn’t want to forget those who sacrificed their lives against the androids, the life he never had, or the pain that they caused. He didn’t want to forget his best friend, mentor, master, father, brother, and more… But the fits and nightmares were getting more lucid, more real, more threatening, and he didn’t know of any other way he could rid himself of them than to simply put the past to rest for good.

Mulling it all over in his head, Trunks didn’t realize until he’d walked another block that he’d passed the neon purple sign of the post warehouse. Hurrying back, he pushed all thoughts from his mind and concentrated on what he was there for. A small bell tinkled above the door as he pushed it lightly open, entering a small office with two leather armchairs, many small mailboxes along the back wall, and a tall counter behind which stood a very pretty young woman. Trunks blushed a bit, feeling self-conscious about his unkempt appearance in the presence of this girl who was no less than immaculate. She giggled a little as he approached the counter, exasperating his discomfort.

“You must be Mr. Brief,” she said.

Trunks, utterly nonplussed as yet another person he’d never spoken to knew his name, merely nodded.

“You’re just in time before we close up,” she continued, brushing a few strands of auburn hair out of her eyes. “Your mother called this morning and said you’d be retrieving a package for Capsule that was scheduled to arrive today.” She winked at him and pressed on, unfazed by his lack of response, “I’m Evita. Let me have someone check if it’s come in yet.” She practically leapt the distance to the wall where the intercom was mounted, speaking clearly into it, “Delivery check on name Brief, Bulma.”

Trunks began lightly tapping his left foot and drumming his fingers on the counter to ease his anxiety. Aware that she was smiling at him as she made her way back to her chair beside the telephone, he gave her a quick glance, a nervous smile, and said simply, “Thanks.”

He continued staring around the room, trying his best to avoid her gaze which he was all too sure was fixed on him. After a minute or two she cleared her throat softly and asked, “So, you work in the city? Construction, from the looks of it.”

“Er, yeah. Clearance site on the upper East side. Today, anyway.”

“Ah,” Evita responded. She breathed in and was on the verge of speech when the intercom buzzed loudly, prompting her to give a startled yelp.

“Delivery for Bulma Brief, Capsule Corporation. It’s a doozy,” the voice emitted from the speaker was deep and gravelly.

“Great. I’ll just need to see some I.D., please, Trunks,” Evita said, shaking her long hair back behind her shoulders. Trunks quickly produced his Capsule Corp. employee identification, wondering why she hadn’t asked for this sooner, and was soon guided through a door to the left of the counter into the warehouse itself. “Right this way,” she said airily, turning down one of the long rows.

The building was massive, much more so than he had observed from the outside. Trunks followed her tantalizingly slow strides, unable to fathom why someone who sat behind a desk at a warehouse all day would wear high-heeled shoes. Before he could give it too much thought, however, she spoke again.

“Most days it’s just me in the office and the boys who work back here. It can get pretty lonely, most customers that order shipments of the size we handle just routinely pick them up from the back and bypass the office altogether,” she explained, waving her hands at the many crates with a distinct air of boredom. Trunks said nothing and they continued on in silence for some time.

“Here we are,” she said sweetly, and Trunks looked down at his hands to make sure he hadn’t developed any wrinkles. “Looks like they loaded it up already! Just follow me and we can get this put on your truck.”

He simply stared back at the package, dumbstruck. It was as tall as he was, at least eight times as wide, and three times as deep. His mother knew he walked home, so how did she expect him to get this back to Capsule Corp. without attracting attention? He followed Evita’s beeping forklift, trying to figure out how he was going to manage this. He was still grumbling angrily under his breath when it stopped, and he walked into it. Evita gave him a little smile of pity, and Trunks understood that he was starting to give her the impression that he was mentally handicapped.

She pressed a button on the forklift controls which started a massive metal door along its motorized tracks, spilling weak sunlight into the wide opening. She drove the forklift outside and lowered the massive box slightly, then cut the ignition and stepped out.

“Well, here we are. If you can just pull your truck around we can get it loaded up and send you on your merry way,” Evita said with another cheesy smile. Trunks grimaced.

“Could you just uh, put it down? Here. And then I’ll uh, go get my… truck. And load it up. Myself.” Trunks knew at the sight of the grin on her face that it wasn’t going to fly. He wished he simply could.

“Afraid to show me your ride, huh?” She gave a knowing nod. “It’s okay, I drive a beat up old sedan.” She giggled girlishly and Trunks felt nausea gripping his stomach. Apparently she mistook the look of revulsion on his face, however, because she remarked, seemingly in response to it, “You’re so sweet Trunks; strong and silent, just my type! We should go out some time!”

This time, nobody could be thick enough to mistake the look of sheer horror on Trunks’s face as he made repeated attempts at speech. “I uh-… really, that’s… but well… er… very… and so…”

Recognizing his failure at expressing a cohesive thought, his fight-or-flight survival instincts kicked in. He reached up, heaved the massive package his mother had ordered from HFIL for him to retrieve, and took to the air. He flew up and away towards Capsule so fast that he almost didn’t register the shriek of terror as the force of his take-off nearly crushed the beast from which he fled under a toppling forklift.

It didn’t take long for Trunks to regain his sense and realize that he had just screwed up very badly. Unfortunately, before he could even think of what to do, the people below realized this too. With a pang of guilt he heard shouts and screams of terror and, distinctly, a number of people saying the word “android”. He glanced down and saw a number of them running in the opposite direction, with a few simply watching in terror as he flew. Not knowing what else to do, he flew as quickly as he could to Capsule Corp.

He hoped nobody was looking as he touched down, though he knew he probably couldn’t be that lucky. He dropped the massive bulk on his shoulders to the ground a bit harder than he should have, and bolted inside. On his way up the staircase to his mother’s office, he ran into the teal-haired genius, looking quite beside herself.

“Trunks! Thank goodness! What’s happening? They said there’s been an android attack and— ”

“Attack?! I didn’t attack anybody!”

Bulma’s eyes widened in shock. “It was you?”

“Of course it was me! Who else around here can fly? This is entirely your — what’s funny?”

Bulma had broken into a fit of giggles as Trunks shouted at her, his long lavender bangs clinging to the side of his face and looking quite disheveled. “Oh, well it’s just that… they said on the radio. The android that was seen was a girl.” She couldn’t contain herself anymore and doubled up laughing. Trunks’s face soon resembled a tomato and he clenched his fists, taking deep, calming breaths.

“I — do — not — look — like — a — GIRL!” Trunks raised his voice with each syllable, but on the last, as he attempted to shout, his voice broke and instead squealed the word. His mother, howling, rolled down the stairs to the landing below as he held his hands over his throat, considering strangling it for the betrayal. It took several minutes for them both to regain their composure.

“Oh, Trunks,” Bulma finally rasped over his mutinous mumbling. “You are so like your father sometimes. You gotta learn to laugh at yourself kiddo, the ladies will love it!” She gave him a quick hug and a wink, but there was a slight expression of guilt on her face. Eager to change the subject she asked, “Speaking of the ladies, how’d things with Evita go?”

At this, Trunks’s anger subsided as he blinked his bewilderment at her. He had a fleeting glimpse of the word “oops” written across her face before she seemed to become fascinated with the ceiling and started walking back up the stairs. He stared after her a moment and then asked, “What is that supposed to mean?”

When she did not answer, his suspicions heightened and he quickly strode the distance between them, blocking her just before she reached the door of her office. “How is it, exactly, that you know that girl, Mom?” He glared, daring her to confirm what he suspected.

“Oh, well, you know,” she started, shrugging and trying to sound casual. “Penny from accounting is her mother. They lost their whole family, too, you see, and Penny said she could use some company and I thought you could too, so I—”

“Set me up?” he asked shrewdly. He couldn’t explain the anger he was feeling, but it must have shown in his face. His mother instantly became defiant.

“Yes, that’s right! I set you up because I noticed that you refuse to make friends, or talk to anyone, or socialize at all! I thought that maybe you’d be happy to have some company!” She swelled up in indignation and got in his face, and to her surprise, Trunks relented. He simply sighed and started off down the stairs. Bemused, she called after him.

“Hey! Where are you going? I’m not done with you!”

“To socialize,” he spoke back, his voice quiet but clear enough to be heard as he disappeared around a corner at the foot of the stairway.

“Shouldn’t have asked,” Bulma said to herself, closing the office door behind her, looking decades older than she had just moments before.

***********************************

A small ripple spread through the grass where orange boots met softly with the hard clay of an unpaved road up Mt. Paozu. It was overgrown now with all sorts of vegetation but still clearly contrasted against the endless seas of green grass on either side. Winding up the gentle incline of the mountain, it came to an end at the threshold of a weather-beaten home adjacent a small hut with fading blue roof tiles. The windows were grimy and grass grew wildly up the foundations of both dwellings and the well they shared. Two trees had outgrown the small house, casting it half in shadow in the twilight.

The sight was peaceful, Trunks thought. It didn’t look dilapidated or run-down, but merely as if the owners had left home some time ago; a fitting headstone for the two who had indeed left, but whose bodies remained side-by-side under the massive, forlorn willow in the back yard. It was not they who he had come to see, however. With a twinge of remorse he turned away, remembering the tragic passing of the final member of the Son family so shortly after her son’s death. Unlike Trunks, she’d had no one left.

Squinting at the horizon he could just see the top of a wide deciduous tree over the crest of a hill. Burying his hands in his pockets Trunks shuffled forward, his head bowed and his hair obscuring his face. He breathed in the many smells that city life simply did not offer: the damp grass, the various flowering shrubs casting all manner of pleasing aromas, and the growing scent of soaked soil. As he overtook the hilltop and began down the somewhat lesser incline, the familiar lake came into view, its black surface glistening under the brightening starlight.

He approached the ancient tree with growing anxiety, his extremities shaking. The sense of loss was overwhelming, yet he was drawn to this place as much by the good memories as the bad. That was why he had chosen this place; Chi-Chi agreed. As he came around the vast trunk to the side that faced the lake, Trunks purposefully stepped over a broad patch of grass. The outline of the gravesite was etched permanently into his memory. He ran his bare hands along the surprisingly smooth wood: the same bare hands with which he had dug the grave. His fingers lightly traced the inscription he had carved there, worn with time but still unmistakable.

SON GOHAN

757 – 780

Tears stung in his eyes and a lump formed in his throat. He brushed over the name several times before moving along to the letters carved below that. These were somewhat sharper, visibly more recent:

NOT IN VAIN

He gulped at the cool night air, desperately trying to prevent the sobs from overtaking him. Trunks clutched at the tree as if his nails could pull from it the familiar orange gi and return to him the man who wore it. He leaned against the tree with a clenched fist for several minutes before regaining some semblance of self-control. Turning his back on the heart-wrenching epitaph, he sat down at the base of the tree, leaning his back against it and drawing his knees to his chest, resting his chin on his hands on top of them. He looked out across the lake, but his eyes saw nothing, their gaze fixed inward.

Gohan’s first assessment of him had been right, Trunks thought with derision. He was an emotional wreck. He wondered if Gohan would have been able to better teach him how to gain control over his emotions if not for his untimely death. The thought of several more years training with the person he treasured more than any other in his life pierced his heart like a blade. He was vaguely aware of the fresh tears sparkling in his eyes and again cursed at himself. That kind of dwelling on what could never be was not the type of control Gohan would have encouraged.

His entire life he had spent trying to be strong like Gohan, just as Gohan had spent his trying to outgrow the shadow of his father. That last word echoed in Trunks’s mind. Gohan had been his father, for all intents and purposes, but he was also so much more. Yet despite his influence Trunks had never gained the same confidence and sense of self that made the older demi such an inspiration.

Everything in his life had felt like a failure. He had failed to save his family. He had failed to save Gohan. He failed to save his world through his time travels. He had failed to save the alternate past timeline from the androids. He had exposed that timeline to Cell and other untold consequences, and the consequences of these failures were – just as in the theme park – blunted only by the strength of Gohan. The comparison was apt, he thought: in that final battle against Cell the younger version of his master had also lost use of his left arm, even if it was later restored.

Even the defeat of the androids in this time had been Gohan’s doing. It was the pain of losing him that had made Trunks a Super Saiyan. Gohan had foreseen it and had sacrificed his life willingly for that outcome. The high cost and the extremely late timing of his eventual triumph over the pair made the victory much more bitter than sweet. So he failed, too, at that which he wanted more than anything: to be like his master. He realized that this line of thinking constituted a self-fulfilling prophecy and that he would never be like Gohan if he was always putting himself down, but he had no method of dealing with these thoughts. There were no great challenges to focus him, so he simply wallowed helplessly in the darkest corners of his own mind.

Being in this place made Trunks feel physically numb. He sought it out because it virtually drowned him in everything he had left of Gohan. Because of this immersion, he hardly noticed the spider crawling across his vibrant boot, the gentle breeze causing his hair to tickle his face, or the voice that suddenly broke the silence.

“Are you still moping on about me?”

Trunks blinked as he considered what just happened. What he thought had just happened, anyway. It must’ve been his imagination. He’d obviously been thinking so hard about what Gohan would say to him now that he’d imagined actually hearing it. His eyelids drooped a bit at his rationalization as the voice rang again, a bit more sharply.

“Oh, sure. When I’m not there you do nothing but wish I was, but I try to hold a conversation with you and you ignore me!”

Trunks looked up, his eyes wide. He focused for a moment. He sensed no one and jumped dully to the only conclusion he could come up with, saying flatly aloud, “Oh, boy. I’ve finally cracked.”

“No, you haven’t,” Gohan chimed in cheerfully. “I’m in Otherworld, training on the Grand Kai’s planet with the Kai that oversees our part of the galaxy, and with my dad! King Kai is an expert in telepathy, so he lets me check in on you now and then. I’m really not supposed to interfere or communicate with anyone, but I win him a lot of fights so he’s letting me bend the rules a bit.”

“Oh.” Trunks couldn’t verbalize much more than that, afraid to dare to believe this was real.

“Get to the point,” barked a nasally voice that gave Trunks the image of a short, fat, extremely sour old man.

“Right. Trunks, I’m worried about you. It’s been five years since I died and you haven’t lived a day. Since you beat the androids you’ve been back at that spot three times a month brooding over the impossible. Do you remember the mantra that I pounded into that thick skull of yours when trying to get you to become a Super Saiyan?” Gohan’s voice was stern, but also hinted at the concern he was trying to convey. Trunks was overwhelmed at hearing that authoritative voice again and let it wash away all the doubts and fears and insecurities he’d been rolling in.

“Let it go,” he responded simply. His voice was croaky from the tears he could not stop. He felt fourteen again at the admonishing.

“Exactly. I died, Trunks, and I’ve moved on. You need to stop trying to keep me alive and move on, too. You finally beat the androids, King Kai let me watch. The righteousness and purpose in you, I’ve never been more proud dead or alive. But you’ve lost the way, Trunks. You need to find what makes you happy.” His voice softened as he spoke, conveying compassion over the immeasurable physical distance. Gohan wished he could reach out and give the aching young man the contact he desired, but he did his best to suppress this – for Trunks’s sake.

“You made me happy. You’re all that’s ever made me happy,” Trunks whispered, looking up to the sky in the vain hope that Gohan could see the conviction on his face.

“That isn’t true. You know it isn’t.” Gohan’s voice was stern again. “You don’t owe me or anybody else anything, but you owe yourself a decent life after the one of hardship and pain you’ve had so far. You see that etching on the tree you’re leaning against?”

Instinctively, Trunks turned and craned his head toward the spot that he could just barely make out in the starlit darkness.

“Your own words, buddy. Not in vain. So stop feeling guilty and stop feeling sorry for me and for yourself. That doesn’t do anyone any good.” His words hung in the air for a moment. Trunks had a feeling that Gohan had more to say, so he hesitated, unsure of what to say.

Then, King Kai cleared his throat pointedly, “So, can we wrap this up?”

“Well, I guess our time’s up! I hope I know you well enough to be sure that you’ll hang on every word I’ve said, Trunks. I expect you to have a whole lot of stories to tell when you finally make your trip to Otherworld!” Gohan was cheerful-sounding, and Trunks could just envision him in a broad grin, his hand absently scratching up and down the back of his head.

“Thanks, Gohan,” Trunks said feebly. “For telling me what I needed to hear. For letting me hear your voice one more time. For everything…” he trailed off, and again he couldn’t suppress the tears that flowed freely from his eyes.

“I’m proud of you, more proud than you can imagine. Good-bye for now, Trunks.” Even Gohan could not keep the deep sadness from his voice. Trunks was seized by an overwhelming compulsion to put into words just why the past five years had been so difficult.

“I love you, Gohan.” The words came smoothly from his mouth, much clearer than he could have imagined himself capable of in this state. He waited a moment for response, but knew at once that it would not come. He broke down completely, toppling onto all fours and pounding the ground with his fists as tears leaked copiously from his eyes to the ground below. Anger that he had again been denied the opportunity of expressing this innermost secret welled up inside of him and he roared at the stars. “Gohan! I love you, Gohan!”

***********************************

Trunks flew beneath the low clouds, his hands balled into fists at his sides. He hoped the cover of darkness would avoid anyone mistaking him for a flying female android again. He’d dealt with enough he couldn’t see for one night and doubted his own sense of direction at present. He was exhausted in every sense of the word and simply wanted to shut himself in his room and sleep for the rest of the weekend. Hopefully he’d be able to attain a bit more clarity when he was well-rested.

He landed soundlessly on the grass beside the front entrance to the familiar dome, a cool breeze prickling his skin and sending a shiver down his spine. After keying himself in, Trunks skulked his way through the corridors to where his room was. As he reached the final stretch he all but tiptoed his way past the half-open door that led down to his mother’s lab/workshop, which was illuminating most of the attached hallway. His door stood slightly ajar down the corridor on the opposite side, but as he reached it he heard a creak and felt his mother’s eyes burning into his back. With a sigh, he turned to face her.

“Thought you could get away without saying good-night, did you?” she asked indignantly. Her expression softened as she took in her son’s appearance. His hair had been released from its ponytail and now curtained his whole head; it was tangled in a way the wind couldn’t have managed. His eyes were red and puffy, his face covered in red blotches. It looked as if he’d chewed his bottom lip until it bled. What alarmed her most was that he was allowing her to see him like this. He’d always been too proud to face her with the trails of tears on his cheeks, and the defeated expression he wore indicated that he didn’t have the energy to enter their unique version of “communication”.

Immediately she knew something had devastated her son, and she had a good idea what.

With a graceful, fluid movement she was across the hall and embracing him, not knowing what else to do. “Trunks…” she muttered.

He returned her hug for a moment, gripping her tightly, before choking out, “Good-night, Mom.” She recognized the plea and let go, her heart sinking as he closed the door behind him.

It physically pained Bulma to see Trunks suffering in such a way. She didn’t want to lose him, yet she wasn’t sure how long he could go on like this. Her resolve hardened. She had to help him, and soon. Wiping the tears from her eyes and giving a small sniffle, she turned and strode back down the hall.

When he finally heard the door of his mother’s workshop creak closed again, Trunks leaned off the door. Ordinarily, his mother’s reaction to seeing him would have wrenched his heart; tonight, there was simply no further room for pain. He stripped off his filthy clothes and without even bothering to wash collapsed onto his back upon his bed. As he fell quickly into sleep, his ears did not register the soft rumble of distant thunder.

***********************************

The rain came on quickly. The dull plunks of water droplets splashing off the rooftops soon gave way to a continuous crashing sound as torrents of water poured from the skies above. The issuing black clouds crept invisibly across the sky, brief glimpses visible only by the intense flashes of brilliant white light, each bolt producing crackling booms that rattled the windows of the city below.

In spite of the assault on their senses, the people of New West City slept on through the deepest hours of the night. Thunderstorms were a common enough occurrences, and the only dangers they perceived were kept at bay by thick walls and extensive drainage systems.

There was one residence on the edge of town, however, where not all was peaceful and where the rain was dreaded beyond all else. As a particularly violent crack of thunder rattled his bedside window at Capsule Corporation, Trunks sat bolt upright in his bed, his hands clutching the sheet below him. Immediately the familiar sounds filled his ears. His eyes widening, he turned to see the water streaking down the glass. He shoved himself backwards, off the bed and onto the floor, as the room began to spin and dissolve from view…

————

Bulma furrowed her brow as she pounded away furiously at the keys beneath her fingertips. Completely oblivious to the late hour, her red-rimmed eyes were fixed on the luminous screen in front of her. The vigor with which she worked for so many hours straight belied her advancing age. She shifted her gaze and her right hand for a moment as she scribbled a few things down. A small frown of concentration played on her lips before she turned back to the computer. She began typing furiously again and muttering to herself.

“Hmm… April, yes. Leaves a few months. Yes, that should do it.”

She stopped typing and leaned back a bit, smirking a bit. She glanced over her shoulder and then back at the gauge at the edge of her screen. The humming of the various pieces of equipment engulfed her for a moment, and the particularly violent crack of thunder did not faze her as it normally would have. It clicked immediately after, however, as she next caught the sound of a deep, drawn-out scream that she knew all too well.

“Trunks, no!” She couldn’t have stopped the useless shout from escaping her lips any more than she could have stopped herself from launching across the room, almost overshooting the staircase as she dashed up to the hall. Few would have believed a fifty-three year old woman could move so fast had they not seen it for themselves.

Bulma flung open the door to her son’s room and stood in the doorway for a moment to gain a measure of the situation. Trunks was sitting beside his bed on the floor and his back to her, wearing nothing but his boxers. His knees were bent and he was leaning back on his hands, slowly pulling himself backwards and away from the window at which he was staring. He was drenched in sweat and shivering. His sheets were twisted, and from his proximity to the bed she gathered that he had just woken up to the violent storm. If he wasn’t far along, perhaps there was still time to bring him around…

Dashing forward across the small bedroom, she wrapped her arms around him and began whispering soothingly to him. “It’s okay Trunks. It’s okay, I’m here. You’re not alone. Come on Trunks, stay with me.”

Trunks gave no indication that he heard her. His eyes were unfocused and full of tears as he spoke in a small voice, “No… Oh gosh, no! What did they do to you, Gohan…”

“Come on Trunks. Please. Snap out of it. It’s over Trunks, please!” Bulma pleaded, squeezing him, rocking him, tears spilling down her cheeks as feelings of helplessness set in.

Trunks brought his hands up in front of him, pushing her to the side a little as he grasped at something she could not see. As the realization dawned on her of what he was re-living, she closed her eyes in revulsion and renewed her attempts to snap him out of it. Trunks simply mumbled things she couldn’t understand. Then, his body began to shake more violently and the tears flowed more rapidly down his cheeks.

“Gohan!” he shouted. “Gohan!” again, raising his voice again. “Gohan!” this time he released at the top of his lungs, and the last syllable turned into an endless, deep scream of agony.

Bulma clung to her son now out of terror as much as a desire to comfort him. His hands were balled into fists, his nails breaking the skin of his palms. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, his entire face contorted by the vast extension of his jaw. Purple hair began fluttering around his head, as if caught in a breeze, and Bulma knew what was going to happen.

“Trunks, no!” she cried. “Trunks, stop! Please!” she couldn’t make herself any louder, yet still he did not hear her.

The entire room began to shake and Bulma felt as if a warm breeze was sweeping in from nowhere. The all-too-familiar golden glow was now visible and Trunks’s hair sprung out into a huge mass of spikes as it flashed a bright blonde. His eyes shot wide open to reveal their intense greenish-teal color, still unfocused and unseeing. The pained screaming continued.

Then, quite suddenly, all the muscles of Trunks’s body contracted and an unstoppable force hurled Bulma outward, away from her son. His scream grew even louder and more intense as things fell from the walls and shelves of his room and his mother slammed hard into the wall, crumpling into a heap on the floor.

And as abruptly as it had started, it ended. Trunks’s hair returned to its usual lavender and the irises of his eyes became blue and vibrant with lucidity once more. Panting, his voice rasp as he crawled over to her, he gasped out, “Mom! Mom, are you alright? Oh, please, no…”

He sat on his heels beside her and lifted her into his arms, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. Her eyes were closed and a quick assessment told him that she wasn’t bleeding and didn’t appear to have broken anything, yet she wasn’t responsive. He began to panic. Brushing her hair out of her face he stared down at her, and was shocked to see that she was smiling.

“That tickles.” Her eyes fluttered open. “I hope I didn’t scare you as badly as you scared me. How are you feeling, Trunks?” she asked, lifting herself up on her knees to give him a once-over, her expression full of motherly concern.

“I’m fine,” he said shortly. Then, again panicking, he tumbled into explanation, “Mom, I’m sorry, I don’t know… I couldn’t…”

“It’s alright, Trunks. I’m tougher than I look,” she said. “I’ll be fine. But will you?” she asked. The storm had subsided some and the rumbles of thunder were distant, the rain light.

“I’ll be okay now,” he said apprehensively. Then, realizing his state of undress and how profusely he’d been sweating, he blushed. “I think I could use a cold shower.”

Bulma gave him a stern, appraising look, trying to determine whether he was brushing off his condition to avoid inconveniencing her. Satisfied by the look of embarrassed innocence on his face she said, “Well, if you’re sure. I’ll go out to the kitchen and make tea. Just holler if you need anything, okay?”

Trunks nodded as he stood, then helped his mother to her feet. They hugged for a moment and she headed from the room to make tea. She’d inherited her belief that tea was the cure-all for every ill, physical or emotional, from her own mother. For all the bickering they did, he loved his mother, and the thought that he had almost harmed her tonight drove him to the brink of madness. Sighing, he gathered up a towel and headed into his attached bathroom.

The cold tile against his feet sent goose bumps popping up Trunks’s skin. Closing the door behind him, he looked into the mirror to size himself up. He had to admit, he was a bit of a wreck. The huge bags under his eyes certainly didn’t help. His face was still puffy and pale with red blotches all over, with the drying trails of sweat and tears giving him a somewhat grimy look. Or perhaps that was from the dirt that was variously visible on his forehead, in his hair, and all manner of other places. He was clammy from the effects of evaporation, and as he ran his hands over his skin he noticed that they had been bleeding.

He turned with a sigh away from the mirror and bowed his head as he faced the shower. This prompted another observation. He had not been aware of it until now, but there was something protruding a good distance out the fly of his boxers. ‘A mind of its own,’ Trunks thought to himself. Then he wondered just how long that had been there and whether he’d given his mother a bit more in that hug than he’d intended. Trying to force this from his mind Trunks put the cold water on and stepped into the shower, letting out a gasp as the icy water ran over him.

“What a day,” he muttered, spitting out the water he’d inadvertently taken in. Trunks found his mind to still be staggering through a haze. Visions and memories of Gohan that he knew were real, and very recent ones that he thought were real, swam in and out of focus in his head. He couldn’t understand it. He’d been a mess on other days, why did Gohan choose today to talk to him? His own behavior wasn’t new, so what prompted Gohan to try to intervene from beyond the grave? Was it Gohan’s bringing all of these raw emotions to the surface which triggered his violent outburst? Nothing seemed to make sense, and he groaned as he transitioned the water from cold to warm.

He stepped out of the shower a few moments later and reached for his towel, the same questions without answers tugging at his brain. He toweled himself dry and wrapped it around his waist. He pulled as much of his hair as he could back into a ponytail, though the bangs at the front escaped as usual and took their place at the sides of his face. He stepped carefully across his room, trying to avoid stepping on everything that had fallen to the floor. His eyes and hands brushed briefly over the familiar orange and blue gi he kept in the bottom drawer as he rummaged for some comfortable clothes. He settled on a pair of loose athletic pants and one of his black tank tops, dragging them on and ambling out the door.

Physically he felt much better thanks to the refreshing shower. Emotionally, however, he’d only gotten more confused and frustrated as he tried to make sense of things. He’d gotten past the disbelief – he accepted that he really had spoken to his old master under that tree. He knew that Gohan had been right on nearly every account, as well. Trunks wanted more than anything to take Gohan’s advice to heart, but these flashbacks, nightmares, whatever they were… it was like reliving the source of his pain on a regular basis. How could these wounds heal if they kept being torn open? Perhaps with tea, he mused, as the familiar aroma of his preferred Earl Grey reached him.

Trunks stepped into the open kitchen to see his mother placing a mug down in front of a chair she was reaching her legs around to sit in. What was clearly his mug was already sitting at a place on an adjacent side of the square wooden table on the far side of the kitchen. She gave him a warm smile that invited him to sit down. She spoke as he closed the distance to the table.

“Milk and two sugars, just the way you like,” she told him, indicating his mug. He sat down and took a long draught of the hot liquid, relishing the way it seemed to burn feeling back into him. He looked without expression into his mother’s eyes, wondering what sort of answers she was expecting to glean from the impending conversation. He wasn’t going to try to avoid it this time; she deserved to know what little he could tell her. She broke the silence of their staring contest first.

“Trunks,” she began, and she reached out and took his hands in her own. “I love you so much, more than you will ever know, and I’m so proud of you, more than I could ever say.” She almost seemed to be pleading with him. Trunks squeezed his mother’s hands gently.

“I love you, too, Mom.” He tried to put a lot of meaning behind the words and matched her expression in contact and intensity. She looked nervous – very nervous. The unease in her eyes was almost as strong as the concern, and as if he’d been punched in the stomach Trunks realized why.

She was afraid of him. He could have killed her and just like everyone else, she was scared of what he could do if he lost control.

“Don’t you dare blame yourself, Trunks,” she said. He wished he could stop showcasing his emotions on his face, though he suspected that she’d be able to tell what he was thinking even if he wore a bag on his head. “For any of this. You didn’t choose this life or what it’s thrown at you, so stop putting yourself down about it,” her voice was firm and he knew there was no point trying to argue with her. Trunks merely nodded, looking down at the mug he was swirling in his hand.

“Now, tell me,” she continued, “What happened at Mount Paozu that had you so rattled when you came home?”

Trunks looked up in shock. “How did you—” he croaked, but Bulma interrupted him.

“You may think you’re so stealthy, mister, but do you really think I’ve survived this long by being totally oblivious? Now what happened?”

Trunks shifted uncomfortably. The revelation that his mother apparently knew where he’d been disappearing to all these months was not a bar didn’t surprise him as much as it unsettled him. What was worse is that she seemingly also realized that this particular visit to his master’s grave had been different. He couldn’t tell her. Between his little nightmare and admitting he was hearing disembodied voices he was certain she’d think he had gone completely bonkers. She’d have a good point, he thought. He sighed audibly.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he mumbled indistinctly, half hoping she didn’t hear him.

“Try me,” she said with burning defiance that made him wince.

He hesitated, but he knew that he couldn’t back away from this one. That glare would bind him to the chair until he spilled the beans, and with resignation he began. “He spoke to me,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Gohan. I heard his voice and it… well, it responded,” he finished.

After a moment, Bulma’s expression softened a bit as she raised her eyebrows and said, “And? What did he say?”

That wasn’t quite the response Trunks had expected and he stumbled to answer his mother’s probing. “He— well, he said… He said he was worried about me, said I needed to,” he paused and swallowed hard before finishing in a quiet croak, “Stop blaming myself.”

She sighed and smiled warmly at her son, “Well I’m glad we reached the same conclusion.”

Trunks was gripped by disbelief again. His brain was getting sluggish and he gulped down the rest of his tea while he tried to think how to verbalize the question that burned at him. “So you… You believe me? I mean,” he paused, mentally trying to kick his mind for its poor performance. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

His mother laughed at him. “Oh, Trunks,” she said with a grin. “I knew Gohan his entire life, his father was my best friend, we spent months on a spaceship and an alien planet together. I saw and did things you wouldn’t believe with those two,” she paused and laughed again, her eyes misty. “If I told you I was once transposed into the body of an alien frog, wouldn’t you believe me?”

Trunks merely looked at his mother, blinking a couple times as he gained a measure of what she was saying. She didn’t wait for an answer, though.

“If Gohan wanted to speak to you, Trunks, I know a silly little thing like being dead wouldn’t stop him,” she said simply. “Now,” she continued with her voice stern again. “You still haven’t explained why you were so distraught by Gohan simply telling you to stop blaming yourself. Or was it something else?”

Trunks damned his mother’s persistence. He couldn’t keep up with this conversation, let alone jog his memory to properly remember what Gohan had said. His eyelids were starting to feel heavy, so he hastened to explain as best he could.

“He said something, something else. He said I—” he paused, his brow furrowing in concentration as he fought the fog filling his mind. His mother stared at him sadly as he struggled, “I need to start living… Living for myself. Need to… Move on,” he stammered. “But I can’t—”

His mother stood from her chair and then kneeled in front of him, and their eyes locked. The young demi-Saiyan could just see the tears in her eyes as she slid in and out of focus. Then she spoke very clearly in spite of them, “Trunks, there is something I learned from your father. It is the hardest lesson I have ever learned, but please take it to heart.” He nodded.

“Sometimes the things we love most are the things we cannot have, and that separation only intensifies the desire. Trunks, even with those we love most, there comes a time when we have to let go and move on, for their sake and for your own,” Bulma continued as tears streaked her face. Trunks tried his best to absorb the words, to hold on to them as he heard the urgency in her voice. She pressed on, “Let go and move on Trunks, please.”

The aging blue-haired woman leaned up and hugged her son tightly, no longer able to suppress a sob. He returned the display of affection, fighting with everything he had against the onset of sleep. Then she let go and held his hands tightly in hers and spoke, much less composed than she had been just a moment before.

“I love you, my son. Never forget that.”

“I love… you too, Mom,” he stumbled out, giving a faint smile before his eyes rolled into his head and darkness engulfed him.

***********************************

Bulma hurried down the stairs, her feet making pronounced clangs on the metal steps disproportionate to her size. She crossed the spacious workshop in two strides and sat sideways in front of the computer she had abandoned not so long ago. She saw the gauge at just under half, reading 43%. She frowned.

It was enough for one journey. She knew when she’d made her decision that there would be no turning back for either her son or herself, but it didn’t please her nonetheless. It took a 40% charge to simply make the jump, the machine would be running on empty when he arrived. She decided she’d give it as much time as she could and dashed back into the hall, down the corridor to her son’s room.

As she flicked on the light, she couldn’t help but remember fondly when her son’s room was this messy merely because he refused to clean it. Bulma looked around and a great weight fell on her heart. This all seemed surreal, and for a moment she considered calling the whole thing off. Then her eyes came to rest on the cracked wall she’d visited earlier. With a sigh, she set about encapsuling all her son’s possessions.

Digging through this cluttered wardrobe and emptying all his clothes, she came to a sheathed sword leaning against the back corner. She picked it up, gently pulling the blade from its holster, until the shattered portion emerged. She slid it back in and placed it gingerly on top of the piled clothes. He’d never told her where the sword had come from, but she remembered the regret on his face when he informed her that it had been broken by an android in the past.

She moved over to his dresser. His wallet sat between two framed photos: one was of herself holding him close in a hug as he tried to wriggle free. He looked about 6. She looked over to the other, where he sat on Gohan’s shoulder. They both wore delighted grins, standing beside the trunk of what must’ve been an enormous tree, in front of a lake of deep blue. Trunks was wearing a pair of Gohan’s sunglasses that were much too big for him and looked no more than ten years old. Gohan looked about eighteen, but there was still that intangible look of pain behind his dark eyes that gave the impression of great maturity, even in a moment of such happiness.

Bulma removed the three items, a tear splashing from her eye onto the hard wood surface of the dresser, and placed them into a small box of his more delicate possessions. Then she went about removing the clothes and contents of his drawers. Among a collection of old junk which ranged from clothespins to bouncy balls to a rusty tape measure, she found two more pictures. The first made her gasp. There was Trunks, not much younger than he was currently, standing with one hand lifted to chest height in a “victory” sign and the other resting on the shoulder of a considerably shorter man, grinning ear-to-ear. His hair stuck up straight at a slight angle backwards from his head and was completely jet black. He was turned away from the direction of the camera, but his eyes were looking at it, his face unsmiling. One arm was held across his chest, and the other looked like it had been in the same position until he removed his hand, one arm still tucked under the other, making an identical “victory” sign. They wore identical, beat-up versions of what she recognized as Saiyan armor.

She looked at it long and hard before shuffling it back to see the other picture. Again, she was shocked. Here was her son again, apparently on the same day as he was still clad in the battered blue and white armor. He was grinning again, standing under a large tree in front of a lake, with a younger boy sitting on his shoulder. Bulma marveled at the younger Gohan, sitting there with the most innocent grin almost identical to his father’s. He was wearing what must have once been a set of purple gi, though the legs were all torn up and only one arm hole remained over his right shoulder. Shaking her head, she placed the two photos on top of the framed pair, one of which was so eerily similar to the one she’d just seen.

Moving down the drawers she continued to empty her son’s possessions into little containers for transport. She came to the bottom drawer and removed some old clothes she wasn’t sure he’d even wear anymore when, on the bottom, she came to a neatly-folded garment she knew well. It was an orange and blue gi, with blue wristbands lying upon it, and the han kanji in black and white facing upward. She knew he wouldn’t wear this, but she also knew he’d never forgive her if it got left behind. Actually, she wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive her for sending him back like this. She placed the garment at the top of the same box where the photos were and slid the drawer closed.

From inside her Capsule Corporation jacket she withdrew a small white envelope which had been sealed, the name “Trunks” written across the front. Squeezing it a little, as if it was entirely this letter’s fault that she was losing her son…

No, not losing. Giving up. She breathed deeply, and tucked it securely into Gohan’s gi. She knew that if Trunks ever needed closure, he would find it. With a last sweep of the now-bare room, she clicked his worldly goods into their capsules and tucked them into her pocket. Not wanting to spend another second there, she switched off the light and closed the door lightly behind her as she withdrew from her son’s old bedroom.

Suppressing the emotions welling up inside of her, she marched back down to her workshop. She saw with annoyance that the time machine was now at just 46% power, but it would be enough to get him there in one piece. She double-checked the coordinates and made sure everything was set before disconnecting it from the computer system. Brushing her hand against the word “HOPE!!” painted on the side, she encapsulated the time machine and stuffed it in her pocket. She pulled open a drawer on her desk and pulled out two other capsules, then withdrew from the room. She knew if she lingered anywhere too long the doubts would start to set in.

Trunks was exactly where she had left him, slumped over the kitchen table. He was out cold, his mouth hanging open slightly and his bangs fluttering slightly at his breath. She clicked the two capsules she’d removed from her desk and two large, humanoid robots appeared in a whirring puff of smoke. They looked at each other and then at her for instructions.

“Hey, boys,” she said. “Could you pick him up,” she indicated Trunks, “and carry him – gently – out back for me?”

“Of course Ms. Briefs,” they chorused in tinny voices. They immediately set about their task, following Bulma closely through a number of corridors as they emerged into the cool air outside.

The ground was still very wet and the air was humid, but the storm had blown itself out some time ago. Some of the stars shifted in and out of view as the remaining clouds passed rapidly through the sky above. Bulma pulled the time machine’s capsule from her pocket and clicked it, and a short moment later it had appeared in the grass some distance behind the large dome they resided in.

“Alright,” she addressed the robots behind her. “Please seat him in there. Carefully, now. He’s not made of iron.”

The metal behemoths clicked their acknowledgment and set about their task. It wasn’t easy for them, even at their size, to lift him as high as the time machine’s seat. After a brief struggle that got them admonished for mishandling their precious cargo, they managed to slump him into the cramped cockpit. Bulma sighed with relief: moving him once he was unconscious would be the biggest obstacle, she knew.

“That will be all, you two,” she barked. The robots instantly turned back into capsules, giving off a big puff of smoke and a bang. Bulma climbed up the side of the large apparatus toward the cockpit. With no need to hold back she was crying freely now.

For the last time, the mother looked upon her son’s face. She absorbed every feature, admired the perfection she saw in the young man who was apparently sleeping peacefully. She gasped at the air heavily as she pushed some hair from his forehead, brushing the tops of her fingers lightly down his cheek. She leaned in and kissed the side of his face gently, then pulled the small box of capsules containing his belongings from her pocket and slid it into his.

“I love you, Trunks,” she whispered. Then she tore her eyes from him and to the illuminated panel in front of him. She again checked that the data was input correctly and then initiated the launch sequence. She leaned out of the cockpit and jumped to the ground, backing away quickly as the glass top came down. The engines on the side groaned as they thrust downward and the machine lifted slowly into the sky.

Despite the flowing tears, Bulma wouldn’t allow herself to blink as the two greatest achievements of her life glowed blue and vanished into nothingness.

[[ End-of-story notes: This is the first fic I've written in years, my first DBZ fic, and my first fic of this scope and size. I don't know that the forthcoming chapters will be quite as long but I won't rule it out.

I hope for some honest, constructive criticism. I can handle it, and if you're sugar-coating or BSing I'll know. And I'll poke your eyes out.

All credit goes to Veronica for inspiring me to write this, for beta-reading, for being a great person to bounce ideas off of, and all sorts of other awesomeness. Cheers.]]