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Uranai Baba had done a great job at grinding the pentacle into Trunks’ head; even after a few years he still remembered it.

“This is it,” he said, giving the drawing to Gohan, who started inspecting it immediately. “So I have to draw the same on the ground, we sit down in the middle of it, wrap a ribbon around our left hands and pour our energy into it.”

“Sounds simple enough.”

“Yes, except that I’ve just used up the last pen we had and I intentionally hadn’t brought the ribbon Baba had given me.”

The drawing did look washed-out and the last part Trunks had colored was even scratched up. Gohan took the red pen from the desk and tried it on the other side of the page. The pen screeched and left a faint, faded line. There was no way it would be enough for a large outline on the floor.

“Well,” Trunks said, “I suppose I could prick my finger and draw with my blood. I think they used to write letters that way back in the past when they couldn’t get ink. Would be romantic.”

“There’s nothing romantic about you bleeding to death. There’s a jar of strawberry jam in the larder.”

Trunks gave him a look. “You can’t be serious? Jam…?”

“And why not? Does it make any difference?”
“Uh. I suppose it doesn’t.” Trunks scratched the back of his head, thinking. “I can just draw with my fingers and…”

“Just use a sausage to paint it.”