Author's notes: I do not own Dragonball Z, it belongs to Akira Toriyama and a bunch of other guys. In this story the characters are slightly O.O.C., though I'd like to think that Eighteens behaviour is normal (considering she's a mother). This story plays in an AU, which means that they do not have special powers and there are no aliens and such.

Enjoy!

Black Seconds

The days went by so slowly.

Marron Chestnut lifted her hand and counted all her fingers. On the 10th of September it was her birthday. It was only the first now. She had so many wishes. Most of all she wanted her own pet. Something warms and lively that belonged to her alone. Marron had a sweet face with big blue eyes. She was slender and had thick, sleek hair. She was witty and cheerful. She was almost too beautiful to be true. This thought frequently visited her mother, especially when Marron went outside and she saw her disappear around the corner. Too beautiful and too good to be true.

Marron swung her leg over bike, seating herself. She wanted to leave on her new Nakamura. She left a gigantic mess behind in her room, where she had been playing with carts and her absence would, at first, leave a big empty hole. Afterwards there would appear a strange tone that would leak through the walls and fill the house with worry. Her mother held her heart. But she couldn't put the girl in a cage, like a bird. She waved Marron off and smiled bravely. Keeping herself busy with choires. The vacuum cleaner would smother that new tone in the room. If she was sweating and became hot, or tired of cleaning, it numbed the pain in her chest, which appeared every time Marron went away. She threw a glance out of the window. The bike swept to the left. Marron went to the village. Everything was alright, she was wearing her helmet. A tough shell that was placed protectively around her head. Sheer preservation. In her pocket she kept a wallet with zebrastripes that contained ten dollars. It was enough for the latest number of the horsemagazine Penny. From the exchange she always bought some candy. She would need around fifteen minut to get to Mama Betty's shop. Her mother counted it in her head. Marron could be home around 18.40 pm. And then she kept in consideration that she might run into someone and talked a minute or ten. While she was waiting, she started to clean up her room. She took the carts and the dolls from the couch. She knew that her daughter could always hear her everywhere. She had implemented her own stern voice in the head of the girl and knew that it kept swirling around as an eternal warning. She felt guilty for it, guilty for she thought it obstructed her daugther's freedom, but she didn't dare not to. Just that voice would save Marron, if she was in danger one day.

Marron was a well raised girl who would never go against the will of her mother nor forget a promise. But the clock in Eighteen Chestnut's living room was approaching the seven and Marron had still not returned. Then, the first sting of fear made itself known. And afterwards that gnawing feeling appeared in her stomach that kept pushing her towards the window, where she would see Marron arrive every moment on her yellow bike. Her pink helmet would shine in the sun. The wheels would crunch softly over the gravel. Maybe a tinkle with the bell: I'm here again! Followed by a thud against the outer wall, from the handlebars. But she didn't come.

Eighteen Chestnut floated above everything that was familiar and safe. The floor sank beneath her feet. Her body, that would normally be heavy, weighed nothing anymore, she floated like a ghost through the rooms. Then she fell on the ground, with a numb pain in her chest. Why did this feel so familiar? Because she had gone through this situation years before, in her mind. Because she had always known that this beautiful child wouldn't be here forever. She almost went mad from fear, because she had felt it coming. The awareness that she could foresee things, the recognition that she had known this from the very first moment, made her dizzy. That's why I'm always so scared, thought Eighteen. For ten years I have feared every day and I had good reason for that. Now it's here. The nightmare is here. Big and black it gnaws on the inside of my heart.

At 19.15 pm she ripped herself out of the apathy and searched the phone book for the number of Mama Betty's Shop. She tried to keep her voice under control. It lasted a long time before her call was answered. Because she was standing here now with the phone in her hand, and with that also betraying her fear, she knew for sure that Marron could arrive every moment. As the final confirmation of the fact that she was just an overworried mother hen. But Marron didn't show up and a female voice answered the phone. Eighteen started with an apologizing laugh, because she heard that the woman who answered was an adult and she probably also had kids. She would understand it. My daughter has left on her bike to buy a Penny. At your Shop. Afterwards she would come home immediately, but she's not here yet. So I'm just calling to ask if she has been there. This said Eighteen.

She looked outside the window to protect herself from the answer.

'No', answered the woman. 'There has been no girl, not that I can remember.'

Eighteen kept silent. This answer couldn't be right. She had to have been there, why did that woman say such things? She wanted to hear another answer!

'She is small and has blond hair', she kept going stubornly. 'Ten years. She's wearing a blue jogging suit and a pink helmet. Her bike is yellow.'

The part of the bike didn't make any sense. She didn't take it with her inside, after all.

Mama Betty, the woman from the Shop, didn't dare to give an answer. She heared the growing panic and didn't want to make it worse. That's why she skipped through her memories of the last few hours, again. But no matter how much she would want it, there was no little girl there.

'Off course, there come and go a lot of kids', she said. 'The whole day long. But around this time it's quite. Between five and seven people have dinner. Afterwards it becomes busier again, 'till ten o'clock. Then I close.'

She didn't know what to say more. Furthermore, she had two burgers laying on the baking plate, they started to smell a little burned and a customer stood waiting. Eighteen searched for words. She couldn't hang up, didn't dare to break the connection that linked her to Marron. Because to that woman, she had been on her way to. She stared down the road. Once in a while a car passed by. The evening jam was over.

'But if she comes', she tried, 'Tell her I'm waiting for her.'

It kept quite. The woman in the Shop wanted to help, but didn't know how. How terrible, she thought, to have to answer no. While that woman desperately needed a yes.

Eighteen Chestnut hung up. A new calculation began. A creeping, uncomforting change in the light, in the temperature, in the landscape. Trees and bushes stood like prepared soldiers in a row. Suddenly she saw that the sky, which hadn't dropped one drip of water, was suddenly overcast. When did that happen? She felt her heart beat painfully, she heared the clock tick mechanically. The seconds, which she had always imagined herself as metal dots, turned into heavy, black drops she felt piece a piece. She saw her hands, dry and smooth. They looked like the hands of a younger woman, but they weren't. She had gotten Marron quite late and she had recently turned fortynine. Suddenly the fear turned into anger and she picked up the phone again. There were lots of thing to be done, Marron had friends and family in the neighbourhood. Eighteen was good friends with Bulma, and she had a daughter of ten, Bra, and a son of eighteen, Trunks. Marron's father, who didn't live with them, had two brothers in the centre, who were both married and had four kids together. They were family. Maybe she was with them. But then they would have called. Eighteen hesitated. First her friends, she thought. Angela. Or maybe Kirsten. She also went to Robin, a twelve year old boy from her class who had a horse, a lot. Her daughter's class list, with all the names and numbers, hung with tape to the kitchen door. She started at the top with Kirsten. No, too bad, no Marron there. The worry of the other woman, the uncomfortableness and the sympathy, and at last the inevitable end of the conversation – she'll come around, you know how kids are – bothered her immensely.

'Yes', Eighteen lied. But she didn't know. Marron was never late. At Theresa the phone wasn't answered. She talked to Robin's father who said his son was in the stable. She waited while he went to go check on him. The clock on the wall behind her irritated her, that endless ticking, she didn't like it. Robin's father came back. His son was alone in the stable. Eighteen hung up and took a breather. Her eyes were pulled, yet again, towards the window; as if pulled by a strong magnetic force. She called Bulma and broke down when she heared her voice. She could no longer stand upright, her legs seemed to fold into themselves, like she was getting paralysed.

'Step in the car immediately', Bulma said. 'Come to here, then we'll drive around to search for her. We'll find her!'

'Yes', Eighteen answered. 'But she doesn't have a key. Maybe she'll come home when we're searching for her!'

'Leave the door open. It doesn't matter if it is left open. She's probably looking at something. A fire, or a car accident. And then she forgets the time.'

Eighteen ripped the garage door open. The voice of her friend had calmed her. A fire, she thought. Off course. Marron is staring at the flames, her cheeks are red, the firemen are impressive with their black clothes and yellow helmets, she can't move – she is that captivated by the sirens and the crackling of the flames. If there was a fire, I would also not move an inch, captured by the heat. And it's so dry, it hasn't rained in ages. Or a crash. She had some trouble with the keys and saw it in her mind. Bowed metal, ambulances, heart massage and blood filtered thruogh her head. Off course she would forget the time if that happened!

She rode unconcentrated at her friend's house. It was a ride of thirty minutes. Her eyes shot, on her way there, to every ditch on her way. It was most probable that Marron would show up unexpectedly, neatly cycling on her right side, healthy and beautiful and happy. But that didn't happen. Yet, it was better to be doing something. Eighteen had to turn, steer and brake, her body was bussy. If fate was evil minded, she would fight. She would fight the approaching monster with feet and hands.

Bulma was home alone. Her son Trunks Vegeta, who they called Trunks for short, had just gotten his driver's license. He had spared every quarter he had in order to buy an old chevy.

'He practically lives in it', sighed Bulma worriedly. 'I hope in Dende's name dat he drives carefully. Bra went to the library. It closes at eight o'clock, so she'll be home any second, but she can take care of herself. Vegeta is gone, training. Dende help me, he's never at home.'

That last sentence was said with her back turned to Eighteen, while she was battling with her coat. When she turned around her smile was back in place.

'Come on Eighteen, let's go!'

Bulma was slender and slightly taller than Eighteen. At least five years older and with a cheerful nature. They were very close and Bulma had always been the one to take care of Eighteen. Eighteen was aloof, cold and standoffish. Bulma was witty, open and fast. She knew everything. Now she put on her role as support and refuge. She managed to keep her own worry in check by comforting her friend. Bulma got a capsule car from the garage and Eighteen got in. First, they rode to Mama Betty's Shop, where they exchanged a few words at the till. They looked around outside the Shop for a while. Looking for a sign that would show Marron had been there, even if Betty had said she hadn't. They rode further into the city. Walked a tour around the square and stared with fearful faces to all the other faces, all the people, but there was no sign of Marron. To be certain they rode passed the school of West City, where Marron went to the first grade, but the schoolyard looked empty and deserted. During the ride Bulma loaned her cellphone three times to Eighteen, she dialed her own number each time. Maybe Marron was waiting in her room. But the phone wasn't answered. The nightmare grew, sneaked up on them, gathered power. A bit and then it would raise itself high and wash over them like a wave. And it would cover everything in darkness. Eighteen felt it in her body, inside a battle was fought, her circulatory, her pulse, her breathing, everything was disrupted.

'Maybe she got a flat tire', Bulma said, 'and she asked somebody to help her and there is somebody standing with her and repairing her bike.'

Eighteen nodded quickly. That possibility hadn't come up in her yet. It comforted her. There were so many explanations, so many possibilities, and almost none were dangerous, she only didn't see them. She sat stiffly in the seat next to her friend and hoped that there was a big hole in Marron's wheel. That would explain everything. Then she started to panic, because that image scared her. That a car would stop for a little girl with a flat tire. Under the pretense of helping. A pretense! She felt another stab in her heart. Moreover, they would have spotted her by now, they had just ridden the way Marron would have followed. There were no shortcuts.

Eighteen stared straight in front of her. She didn't want to turn her head to the left, because there flowed the river, fast and grey. She wanted to go straight forward, as fast as possible, straight forward to the moment were everything was in order again.

They rode back home. There was nothing else that could be done. They only heared the growling from the motor of Bulma's car. They had muted the radio. They couldn't listen to music while Marron was gone. There was still little traffic. But soon they would pass a bizarre vehicle. They saw him from far away, first as something unrecognizable. The vehicle was part moped, part a sort of truck. It had three tires, the steering wheel of a moped and a bucket the size of a follower. The moped as well as the follower was painted in a coppergreen colour. The driver drove very slowly, but they could see he was watching the car, that he felt something approaching him from behind. He went to ride completely right to let them pass. His look was directed straight at the road.

'Sixteen', Bulma said. 'He's always on his way. Shall we ask him?'

'I thought he can't talk?' retorted Eighteen.

'That's only a rumour', Bulma sounded convinced. 'I think he can talk just fine. If he wants to.'

'Why do you think so?' asked Eighteen, doubting.

'They say it. They say he just doesn't want to.'

Eighteen couldn't imagine that somebody who could talk just didn't. She had never heared of it before. The man on the moped was nearing the thirties. He was wearing an old, brown, leather hat with earflaps and a windproof jacket which he hadn't buttoned. The tails were fluttering in the wind. When he felt the car next to him, he began to sway. He looked disapprovingly at them, but Bulma didn't waver. She waved her arm and motioned for him to stop. He did so, reluctantly. He didn't look straight at them. He only waited, still stairing straight in front of him, with his hands firmly around the handlebars. The earflaps hung down his cheeks like dogears. Bulma rolled down the window.

'We're looking for a girl!' she yelled.

The man pulled a disturbed face. He didn't get why she was yelling like that, there was nothing wrong with his ears.

'A girl of ten years, with blond hair. She has a yellow bike. You always ride around everywhere, have you seen her maybe?'

The man stared at the asphalt. His face was partially hidden by his hat. Eighteen Chestnut stared at the follower. It was covered with a black canvas. She had the vague idea something laid underneath it. Her thoughts went crazy. Underneath a similiar canvas there was enough room for a girl as well as her bike. Didn't he look slightly guilty? But she knew he always averted his face. She had seen him sometimes in the shop. He lived in his own world.

The idea that Marron was laying underneath the black cloth sounded absurd. I'm not myself at the moment, she thought.

'Have you seen her?' Bulma repeated. She has such an authoritative voice, Eighteen thought. So forceful. That's why people stopped and listened to her.

Finally he answered her stare, only for a moment. He had sharp, blue eyes. Did she see it right, were his eyes really darting back and forth fearfully? Eighteen bit her lip. This was the way he was, she knew that, he didn't look at people and didn't want to talk to them. It didn't mean anything. His voice was a bit raspy when he answered.

'No', he said.

Bulma held his stare. His blue eyes rolled away again. He put the moped in acceleration and let the motor roar. The gas was placed on the right side of the steering wheel. He liked to accelerate. Bulma put on her indicator and passed him by. But she kept watching him through her rearview mirror.

'Ha!' she called out. 'Everybody says he can't talk. What nonsense!'

it became almost unbearably quiet in the car. Now she was home, Eighteen thought. Betty from the Shop didn't remember it, but Marron had been there and had done her groceries. She's laying on the couch reading Penny and chewing on Bugg, so that her cheeks are rounded. Everywhere lies candy wrappers. Her mouth smells sweet from the pink bubble gum.

But when they came home, de room was empty. Eighteen collapsed completely. She was one heap of misery.

'My God', she weeped. 'Now it's for real. Do you hear me, Bulma? Something happened!'

The sobs ended in a yell. Bulma walked over to the telephone.

Author's notes: So what do you think? Worth continueing?

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