Hi there peoples! Welcome, and thank you for opening this story I hope you enjoy it and it lives up to whatever expectations that you might have, but before we start this grand adventure together that there are a few things that I need to clear up first, so onto it….
To start off, Trunks and Bra are twins here.
Goten does exist in the Mirai timeline because Chi-Chi was three months pregnant with him when Goku died of the heart virus, and he was born right before the Androids came six months later (that's the actual timeline of what happened). Trunks (and Bra) are still a year older (they were six months old when future Goku died) then him though.
Also, as Trunks has a twin, so does Goten, and please don't run away screaming from this just because of the OC's, I wrote this with the intention of exploring what it would be like if there was more than one member of the future Z-warriors (Mirai Trunks), and what would happen in the Mirai timeline if the Dragon Balls were still in existence. I don't intend on writing any Mary-Sue's, I try my best to make my characters real with believable flaws. Goten's sister won't be all-powerful capable of destroying final version Cell in one hit and able to do no wrong and solving every conceivable problem that arises in the past while simultaneously pursuing a successful acting/singing/dancing career and authoring a best-selling cookbook, on top of being the reincarnation of Aphrodite/Cleopatra/Angelina Jolie because her beauty is so great and sacred. I promise she'll bear both the physical and mental scars that I think are appropriate when one is growing up in the Armageddon society created by the Mirai 17 & 18.
Prologue
Piccolo had never been an idealist.
It was a simple fact, one that had always been a part of him, a part of his natural disposition ever since his first gulps of life giving air after he had burst through the thin, fragile, shell of his egg as he had hatched from The Demon Lord's final legacy. He had emerged, not with the bright eyed, innocent, naivety that others of youth possessed but with a cold, hard grip on the harsh realities of the world he had been brought into, and a single-minded purpose.
Avenge his father, and eradicate Son Goku.
He had failed at his father's final command of course, failed his task miserably, but the point remained that he had always looked at the world through a cynic's eyes, preferring to look upon a glass as half empty rather than full. Idealism had no place in his world; it was more of a little fantasy fairyland a hopeless romantic's unattainable fool's dream, then a mindset to him with people who attempted to gaze past the atrocities committed by their fellow men and living in denial of abominable happenings occurring in the world trying to find a nonexistent optimistic side of the situation.
Fantasy had no place in reality.
Piccolo had always rather liked this aspect about himself, as he attributed this realist attitude to several of his better decisions in life.
It had been this realist attitude, the spark to the kindling if you will, that had been the motivation behind his personal training of Gohan, recognizing that they would require the boys exceptional potential (that he had seen firsthand during the battle with Raditz) in the crusade against the infringing Saiyan's. Of course, it wasn't as if the kid had even provided any actual support in the fight, all he had done throughout the entirety of the conflict was wail in the corner and cower which had eventually caused his own demise….(and he had thought about that which far more fondness then he would have enjoyed.)
It was this realist attitude that he had gone to Namek, knowing that the others would need all possible type of resistance against the, now long dead, Galactic Emperor Freeza, and had also led to the unintentional benefit of learning more about his heritage.
And, it was thanks to this realism attitude that Piccolo could accept his impending fate with seldom trouble.
He was going to die.
The Namekian had come to this conclusion long ago, as he laid sprawled in the dirt at the bottom of the man-crafted abyss the androids had forged to serve as his tomb, limbs splayed out around him at unnatural angles, with small, sharp, pebbles and bits and pieces of gravel digging into his back, and the gaping abdominal wound he had sustained from the catastrophic fight against the androids still oozing copious amounts of blood, the warm wet liquid pooling around his prone form.
He had attempted to move earlier, had tried in vain to shift into a more natural position so his final moments could at the very least be spent in some type of comfort, but the movement had only served to further irritate the additional contusions and lacerations that veiled his body, and the spasms of white-hot scorching pain that had consumed him only seconds later served to strongly discourage any further attempts.
He felt his eyes flutter, the subtle movements seemingly feeling as if he was attempting to seemingly move the skies of heaven and the land itself as the walls of earth that surrounded him began to blur and dim, and the faintest edges of blackness began creeping into the outskirts of his vision. His antennae had gone slack against his forehead, and his breathing had become incredibly labored, more sporadic, his chest heaving in fast frantic bursts as the effort to draw air into his lungs and deliver the much needed subsistence to his bodily systems became more and more difficult with each passing, struggling, instant.
He didn't have much time left, this he knew for certain.
There was no point in allowing himself to indulge in any sort of idealistic motions of nonsense of Gohan retuning with aid in time, or Bulma in some way or another somehow managing to miraculously locate the battleground and come charging in, in some twisted cliché of a knight riding in on horseback to rescue her companions, bearing with her the vitality rejuvenating senzu beans.
No, he had neither the luxury nor the countenance required to permit himself a brief indulgence of such nonsensical delusions. They were inane, troublesome, things, completely contrariant to both his natural self, and the main priority (an aggravating, conundrum of a thing) that he had laid out.
How was he capable of providing assistance against these Androids Seventeen and Eighteen, from beyond the Kai's realm?
The answer, unsurprisingly, had not yet come to him in some sort of miraculous epiphany (not that he had thought it would), and Piccolo could feel a quiet, feral, sort of desperation welling up inside him. Time was warring against him, rapidly fading as it was and…..
His train of thought was derailed rather abruptly as a sudden coughing fit convulsed through his body; and it caused his lungs to burn as if a thousand hot, prickling, needles had been pressed into them.
But, certainly there had to be something he could do; there had to be some sort of meager assistance he could offer in the battle against these two most recently emerged foes that were, doubtlessly, the greatest peril to the Earth's ultimate safety that it had faced yet.
The fact that the duo had managed to massacre (he could not bring himself to refer to the slaughter that had taken place as mere killing) the most powerful beings on the planet without so much as breaking a sweat served as an ominous omen.
The fact that they had laughed while doing so, cackling in a kind of perverse, sadistic glee; at the blood-curling shrieks of agony from the Z-Warriors as they callously, relentlessly, battered them to oblivion; at the dying howls of the warriors that seemed as if they tore through the very air they had been so potent, reverberating throughout the android's ears; echoing against the canyon walls of their surroundings. While all the while flickers of a delirious madness had danced across their otherwise stoic irises, served to be a significantly worse one.
His fingers coiled, imbedding themselves into the soft dirt of the Earth, at the thought of abandoning the inhabitants of the planet that had somehow become his home; forsaking them to the mercy of those monstrosities-and mercy was clearly a notion that neither of them had any degree of familiarity with.
But the question still remained what could he do?
What assistance could he possibly give, when he would already be long since departed to the realm of the otherworld? When…..when….
His train of thought was once again lost to him as Piccolo felt his eye's fluttering shut yet again. He could feel his strength waning, abandoning him at a distressing pace as it seemingly lurched off of him in wave upon palpable wave.
He thought that he had more time.
But more time, wasn't that what everybody seemed to need.
More time to say their final farewells to those that they had loved and had loved them in return.
More time to try to cobble together provisions in order to insure that those left behind were properly taken care of.
More time to simply live.
More time…
More time…
More time….
But Piccolo knew that he was to receive no more.
It was as the vigor of life steadily began to desert him as well, that the ghosts of images that would perish with him to the grave flashed across his mind's eyes,
The Dragon Balls…..
Kami himself…
Utterly gone, faded from the plane of existence with no evidence to the contrary that their mere existence had been more then fables and legends to begin with…..
And there was absolutely nothing that Piccolo could do to prevent it….
…..
…..
…..
Or….or was there?
An abrupt thought swiftly penetrated its way past the hazy fog that had begun to overtake his mind as his imminent demise grew closer; it was a daft, demented, thing….but it might very well just be bizarrely insane enough to work.
For Piccolo recalled a time, more than a decade past now, when a situation parallel to this had occurred. The feared Demon King Piccolo, on the very brink of his own annihilation at the hands of a young Son Goku, prepared to take both Kami and the Dragon Balls to his grave as well; and even though Piccolo was well aware that his late father had scarcely cared about those particular thoughts one fact still remained.
The Demon King had spat out one last egg, the only one to preserve his own essence; the egg that had created him and it had been that last egg, it had been his existence that made it possible to continue the legend.
Who was to say, that he wasn't capable of following that example?
Suddenly, Piccolo could see something that had been sorely missing mere minutes earlier,hope; and with that hope, an abrupt, savage, will churned within him.
Clinging to the scattered shreds of force that he could still left within himself, with a frenzied hysteria, Piccolo delicately managed to maneuver his body into an upright position, bracing the brunt of his weight onto his elbows. It was tentative, the splintered, shattered, bones of what had once been his arms were seldom able to the task of supporting him anymore, and his battered frame trembled with the effort it required. Piccolo was determined, however, and gritting his teeth, he forced himself to disregard the flaring pain that such an act caused, lessened now then earlier perhaps because of a sudden stream of adrenaline….or perhaps his body was simply starting to finally shut down.
But either way did it even truly matter?
Another coughing fit, albeit this one of an entirely different nature, wrecked through his body as the newly formed egg gradually worked its way through his traumatized body. His injuries sprang to life, and flared with a vengeance made of seemingly hell itself, the pain that wracked through him at that moment was so intense and all consuming that for a mere fraction of an instant, he feared that it alone would somehow cause him to perish before his task was complete.
But it did not, and with a final, almighty show of vigor, Piccolo heaved the egg free and launched it from the crater.
He did not see it, but the fragile object landed on the outskirts of the battlefield, the infant that it housed within safe for the time being.
Piccolo collapsed back onto the coarse Earth, panting heavily with what little breath he still possessed, the darkness that had been formely fringing on the perimeter of his vision was now naught but a sea of perpetual black.
Yet he did not feel anything sans triumph.
The android's might well be on their way to propelling the world into a state of barren desolateness, overruled by savage anarchy, yes.
But the Dragon Balls would remain, his actions had seen to that.
And as long as the Dragon Ball's yet remained, there could still be the barest sense of hope.
It was with this final thought, one that gave him a feeling of slight peace (perhaps even security) that Piccolo allowed his eyelids-that had grown exceptionally heavy-to drop….
And breathed his last breath.
And that's it for now, keep in mind this is only the prologue.
Also, for anybody reading this, I'm in the process of creating two polls in my profile, to decide on the final names of Goten's sister, and Piccolo's son (both of whom we will meet in Chapter One-well, we'll meet the latter at least, I might not be able to comfortably fit the newborn Son twins into the story until Chapter Two, but, hey, we'll see what happens.
REVIEW! I want honest opinions on my writing abilities!
I mean do I….
Completely suck and should never go near a computer again
Meh, so-so
Or
It's good!
See I even made it easy with a multiple choice for you guys