The Last of the Saiyans

by Nightsailer

Mirai was the term he accepted. The past was the future he saved. His present was the future he reaped. She was the Saiyan he loved. Damnation was the price that he paid.

(A/N: Alright, people, here's The Last of the Saiyans. Judging by the storyline I have written out, I think this one will turn out to be a little better than Nothing, Yet Everything. When I wrote that other story, I didn't have it planned out; I was lucky that it all made some sort of sense in the end. But this one's completely thought out, and will actually make perfect sense. The epilogue of the other story will come out shortly - probably Thursday or Friday of next week. But for now, I hope you enjoy this fic. Trunks has become a little more like his father than he originally realized, and he is beginning to take pride in the race that ceased to exist. Have fun, tell me what you think.)

Prologue:

Trunks sat alone in the huge house, tucked away behind the computer that used to belong to his mother, typing furiously as shimmering tears flowed freely down his cheeks. Every five words he would compensate for his shaking fingers by vigorously hitting the delete key over and over until he would have to start the entire sentence over again. Messy purple hair cascaded before his glittering eyes as they darted across the script that appeared onscreen, barely registering what he was typing but somehow knowing exactly what he wanted to say.

Loss. Undoubtedly, you have heard this word before. You have felt it creeping up behind you, seizing you by the throat and dragging you, kicking and screaming, into the twilight abyss of despair. You may think you know the true meaning of this word, but you do not. No one can ever know this word as well as I do.

I am the last of the Saiyans.

I am alone.

Angrily swiping the back of his hand across his eyes, he slammed the enter key, carelessly skipping nearly sixteen lines before he began to type again.

Some of you may be asking yourselves if I am crazy. Let me assure, you; I am. But not in the sense you are assuming. The Saiyans were real, and they were the greatest race to ever roam the galaxies. You yourself have been saved countless times by this very race, and you probably never realized it. No, I am crazy in the sense that I have lost everything that kept me sane. The word. There it is again.

Loss.

"Loss," he echoed aloud, a harsh laugh clogging the back of his throat. "God damn that word."

What have I lost, you ask? Too much to say. But I will tell you the most prominent things on my list of the irretrievable. First off, I lost my father twice. Yes, twice. Once when he was killed by the androids which, depending on when you are reading this, you may not even remember, and again when I left him behind in the past I changed but could not experience. I lost my best friend, the son of the Saiyan man you should remember always as the one who saved your sorry hides over and over with no trace of gratitude. I watched him die for my sake, his memory drowned in the rains of the night he was killed. I lost myself, but that is a story for another day. But never mind the absurdity of this story. The only thing that matters is that it is true.

All of it.

My father was a prince. My best friend was a hero. His father was a saint. Our race was a legend.

And now they are gone.

But even the loss of my father and friends, the best our race had to offer, cannot compare to the loss of her.

"Ai," he murmured, closing his eyes. A fresh stream trickled down his cheek and disappeared into the tangles of his chaotic mass of hair. "You were all I had left…you were…everything…to me…"

She was the most beautiful woman…With eyes of amethyst and hair of steel, she stole my heart and bore it to her grave. She is the Saiyan I will love forever.

However, this is not merely a love story; this is a testimony to the fallen, true down to the very last drop of crimson blood immortalized in the pages you hold in your hands. I will not let the memory of the greatest people to ever live fade with the passage of time. The essence of thousands of warriors will not be ignored; I will make sure of that.

But let us start with the beginning of the end. We will work our way back from there. That way, if my mind finally gives way to madness, the most important part of my story will be saved.

My backward legend begins ten years ago today, on the sixteenth of September…

Chapter One: What I Left Behind

A young man stood silently behind the Capsule Corp. balcony podium, his harsh blue eyes moving deliberately across the milling crowd that clogged the grounds and flowed out into the streets. A light breeze playfully ruffled his silky purple hair, coercing it into lazy waves with tiny tendrils of wind. The young man's lips curled gently into a smile. Pushing the shoulder length locks behind his ear, he cleared his throat pointedly as he stepped up to the microphone.

A hush fell over the milling crowd as hundreds upon thousands of tongues were stilled and twice as many ears strained against the stillness to hear what the young teen had to say.

The young man tossed his flowing mane once more into the wind, then tilted the microphone to his lips.

"So very much has happened over the course of these last fifteen years," he began softly, electric blue eyes staring pointedly at everything and nothing, meeting the gaze of each person in turn and yet addressing no one in particular. "The curse of the past decade has affected every single one of us. We have lost nothing short of everything to the evil known as the androids. We have raised out homes from the dusts of earth, only to have them crumble around us mere moments later. We have found comfort in the arms of our loved ones, only to find ourselves utterly alone by the fall of that same night." The startling azure eyes disappeared only a moment as the young man hid them behind closed lids, steeling himself against the memories to move on with his speech. "We have witnessed the rise of technology, only to have it turn utterly against us," he continued quietly, forcing himself to stare into the crowd. "We have witnessed the arrogant ascension of the human race…and we have watched it shatter."

The young man gripped the podium, sharp gaze glinting in the late afternoon sun. "We created monsters with our own hands," he murmured into the microphone, "and we were destroyed by them."

A collective whisper rippled through the crowd, riveted eyes narrowing ever so slightly as memories of death and despair flashed through every mind: a single painful recollection echoed by the broken landscape of West City. The young man held up his hand, and silence fell once more.

"We have lost…much," he continued. "No building, no patch of land, and no single person has escaped the terrible might of the androids. We have all suffered; but now…now we will once more return to the lives we were meant to live."

A tremendous roar thundered through the streets of the scarred city as the crowd raised a deafening cheer. The young man watched his people in their joy, a smile confined to merely his eyes lighting the cerulean irises with memories of hardship, battle, and ultimate triumph. When the cacophony died at last, he leaned forward to speak once more.

"We will rebuild," he declared, inner fire banishing the foggy mists of reverie. Raising one hand resolutely into the air, he clenched the calloused fingers into a fist.

"The human race has prevailed. We will live on in peace. However-" he called over the ensuing applause, "let us never forget the tragedy of this decade past…and how we survived it." Kicking off the balcony, he rose purposefully into the air, clenched fists traveling to the hilt of his sword as he gazed intently into the eyes of the multitudes. He pulled his sword from his sheath, letting the blinding rays of the setting sun dance and shimmer across the battle-nicked blade.

"Let us never forget those who fell to the androids' wrath," he shouted, leaving the aid of the microphone behind. "Through us, they will meet the future that should have been theirs to begin with. Through us, they will live to see the future that, to them, never will be. With the ghosts of the past we will lay the foundation for the centuries to come; let us not build castles in the sky." Tossing the weapon into the air, he cocked his head to the side, letting the blade fall neatly back into its scabbard. "This is your future now; make it count." Slightly inclining his head in a brisk farewell, he shot over the adoring crowd and rocketed toward the sunset, letting the sound of thunderous applause melt away with the miles as he headed for the bliss of solitude.

Half an hour later, he landed beside a waterfall cascading from the cliffs of Mount Pao, welcoming the seclusion of the forgotten peak with the deepest breath his lungs could take. Stripping off his corporate jacket and removing the white t-shirt underneath, he stepped bare-chested into the roaring wall of water.

"Well, I did it, father," he said softly, watching the light shift and distort through the prism of the falls. "I saved the future that never was." Settling down on a jutting rock precipice, he threw back his head and, closing his eyes, let the cool, cleansing water sweep his thoughts away.

To think I will never see him again. To me, he was alive and well no more than a week ago. Now I've come back home only to have to accept his death all over again. My father, Goku, Piccolo, Krillin…it's like they never even existed.

Turning his head from the perpetual flow of water, he let out his breath and drew another, preparing to submerge himself in the plummeting river once more.

"I knew you'd be here, Trunks."

He whipped around in mid-breath, getting lungful of water for his trouble.

Bulma was standing on the bank below, shading her eyes against the dwindling sunset as she watched her son attempt to catch his breath. "You know," she called teasingly, wagging her finger, "one day that waterfall's gonna wash you away and I'm gonna have to tell your adoring public that their hero - the great Super Saiyan who single-handedly defeated the androids - was dumb enough to drown himself!"

"Mother," he sputtered between coughing and spitting up water, "you know - that's not - going to happen!"

Bulma laughed and shook her head. "Yeah yeah, I know. But a mother's got to worry about something, right? I mean, what with the androids being gone and all, you don't really leave me a lot of options, son."

Trunks didn't answer, choosing instead to step out of the waterfall and wring the water from his sodden purple locks.

The blue haired woman eyed her son for a moment, then cupped her mouth and shouted, "Why don't you come down here and talk to me for a while? You've been so busy since you got back that I haven't gotten the chance to talk to you about your trip!"

Having reduced the damage to dampness, Trunks flipped his hair over his shoulder and shared a private smile with the wind. Some things never change, he thought warmly, nodding to his mother and stepping out to the edge of the crag, and I'm glad she's one of them.

"Uh oh," he said mischievously, pretending to stumble on the uneven rock surface. "Seems I've forgotten how to fly. Looks like I'll have to jump for it!"

Bulma's eyes went wide as she realized there was no way she could avoid the imminent splash. "No, Trunks, don't you dare!" she cried, moving as far away from the edge of the rock as she possibly could.

The long-haired teen took a running leap and dove gracefully into the water, adjusting his entry just enough to send a wall of water cascading over her slender frame. Bulma covered her head and staggered back, catching her foot in a hole and sending herself tumbling back toward the water.

"AIYEEEE! Trunks, you'd better hope I drown, cause if I ever make it back onto dry land, I'm gonna kill you!" she screeched, trying to draw a deep breath, scream, and thrash her arms all at the same time. But before she broke the surface, Trunks exploded from the churning river, catching her up and setting her gently down on the grassy bank.

"Looks like I remembered again," he teased, shaking himself off.

"Uh huh, yeah, sure," his mother muttered, twisting the water from her Capsule Corp. jacket. "You know, one of these days, I'm seriously gonna get you for this."

"That's what you said last time," he returned with a smile.

"Hey, gimme a chance. I've got to find just the right moment." She stuck out her tongue. Then, suddenly serious, she leaned over and hugged her son, pressing her face into his strong bare shoulder. "I was so worried about you," she murmured, shifting to regard him at arm's length. "I knew I shouldn't be, but I couldn't help it. I was worried you wouldn't make it back."

"You were right to worry," he assured her, feeling a faint flush stain his cheeks. "There were times when I didn't think I would make it back."

The two blew out a collective sigh, letting the companionable silence fold them inside its warm blanket of relief. Seconds dragged into minutes as the two gazed into the setting sun, watching the stars wink on one by one on the blackboard of the night sky. Bulma heard her son shift, and she glanced over at him from the corner of her eye.

"What is it?" she asked quietly.

"Hm? Oh, nothing." He let his gaze fall to his hands. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"Well… Agh, just never mind. You wouldn't like it." The silky purple brow wrinkled into a frown, and the full lips pursed into a thin line as he turned pointedly away from her.

"Oh come on. I'm your mother; you can tell me anything!" She grabbed his shoulder with her short-nailed hand. "Trunks," she said softly, "I know you too well for you to hide something; you're all I've had since your father died. Tell me what's bothering you."

Trunks gazed back at her for a moment, then turned away once more. "It's just not fair," he muttered.

"What?"

"It's just not fair!" he cried, slamming his fists into his knees. "I just saw him, mother! I was just with him! And now I have to accept that he's gone? I spent over a year just in training with him! He was everything you told me, and more! And…after all these years…" He let his voice trail off into a mumble. "For once, I could say I had a father. For once I could say that I wasn't alone."

Bulma bit her lip. She had known this would happen, and that it couldn't be avoided if she wanted to save her son from the dismal future that almost was. She laid her hand on top of his, giving his clenched knuckles a gentle squeeze. "I know it's going to be hard," she said quietly. "But at least you got to meet him, right? I mean, would you have rather spent the rest of your life never knowing him?"

"But I want to stay with him, mother," he grated. "I want to stay with all of them! Goku, Gohan…my father…" Blue eyes flickered slightly green as emotion gripped his heart. "They're the last of the Saiyans, mother."

"Don't worry, son, your father pounded that into my head so hard that I won't ever forget it," she said with a small laugh, trying to lighten the mood. When Trunks' frown merely deepened, she sighed and moved her hand up to his arm. "Listen. I know you feel alone now, but you're really not! I'm still here, aren't I? And your people are still here for you--"

"They're not my people!" he exploded, making Bulma snatch her hand back in surprise at the uncharacteristic outburst. His hair flashed blond and stood on end, and his blue eyes went a brilliant green as he spread his arms before her. "Look at me, mother. I'm a Saiyan. The last…Saiyan. I will protect the citizens of Earth, but they are not - and never will be - my people." He turned away from her, letting his head fall into his hands.

Bulma stared dumbly at his back, speechless with shock. Not knowing what else to do, she stood up and began to rummage through her pockets for her capsule case. "It seems your father had more of an influence on you than I thought," she said coldly, hurt by his brash words but trying not to show it. "I guess you need some time to think. But when you come to your senses, I'll be expecting you home." Finding the capsule she was looking for, she pressed the button, releasing her battered helicopter from its tiny pocket in space. As stepped into the driver's seat, she flicked one last glance at her son. "And don't forget; you're half human, too, Trunks, and your race thinks the world of you." With that, she hopped behind the controls and sped off for home, kicking up a cloud of dust in her wake.

Trunks watched her go, slightly turning his head as the resulting whirlwind whipped at his stiff blond hair. "But I want to be like my father," he murmured, gazing at the yellow aura that surrounded his clenched fist. "Even though he probably never intended it, he taught me to be strong. My father was the prince of all Saiyans, and I am his son - the final chapter of the greatest race that ever was. But what can I do that would measure up to the feats he and Goku accomplished over the course of their lives?" He slammed his fists into the ground, burying his forearms up to the elbows in the soft clay. "Nothing," he answered himself softly, "except remember."

Yanking his hands from the spongy soil of the riverbank, he scooped up his shirt and jacket and pulled them roughly over his head. He stepped up to a part of the river that moved sluggishly along its course, gazing intently into the eyes of his reflection. Rippling emerald irises stared back at him - eyes that were so much like his father's… He shook his head suddenly, turning from the river and preparing to rocket into the air. "But I can make sure others remember as well," he murmured. "Before I die, I will write down everything I remember - everything I experienced -and everything my mother can tell me about our race." His heart slowed down a few beats, and he managed to force a small smile from between his pursed lips. "Yeah, that's what I'll do. Goku, Gohan…Father…even though this future will never exist for you, I will make sure that you will not be forgotten. The Earth will remember her greatest heroes. You have my word." Mind made up, he pushed eagerly off the bank, shooting toward home with renewed purpose burning in his eyes.

A few minutes later he touched down on balcony of Capsule Corp., the polished glass door already banging open under his eager hands before he even came to a complete stop. "Mother!" he called, kicking off his shoes and tearing off down the hall. "Mother! Where are you? I have something to tell you! I have this great idea--"

Skidding into the kitchen, he was about to repeat himself, but the sight that greeted him froze the words in his throat.

His mother was asleep at the kitchen table facing the front door, the telephone in one hand and a cup of coffee that still steamed in the other. Trunks tiptoed across the tile to her, a gentle smile touching his lips as he lifted the mug from her limp hand.

She must have come straight home and sat here to wait for me, he thought, putting the cup in the sink and leaning against the counter. Pushing the hair out of his eyes, he winced as he recalled the hateful way he had spoken to her. Even after his biting remarks, she still waited for him as she always did; hoping to God he would come home, knowing full well that there was a good chance that one day he wouldn't. I really don't deserve a mother like her…

Shaking his head in wonder, he quietly pulled her chair out from under the table, scooping her into his arms and carrying her to bed, as he had done over and over again when she had been working on the time machine. Treading the carpeted hall to her room, he quietly opened the door and slipped inside, depositing her sleeping form onto the bed and drawing shut the curtains.

"I guess I'll tell you tomorrow," he murmured, switching off the light. "But for now, I think I'll get started. Maybe I can surprise you with it in the morning." Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he wandered back down the hall, heading for his own room to be alone with his thoughts.

Reaching the heavy iron door, he mindlessly entered the code, watching with abstracted eyes as it slid silently open before him. Let's see. Where can I begin? Maybe I should write about the Cell Games first. Agh, no! That didn't happen in this time line! A muscle in his cheek twitched as the door slammed shut behind him. Let's see…Damn, the only one in this version of the future who even managed to survive the androids' initial attack was Gohan, and even his impressive effort against those fiends wouldn't make an impression on the calloused people of this time. They would only think, "These Saiyans must have been just as weak as we were. They fell just as easily to the power of the androids." Trunks clenched his fists. All but one. But I wouldn't have even stood a chance if I hadn't traveled back in time to train with my father! How can I make them see that?

"People are so stupid," he grated, roughly yanking his swivel chair from beneath his desk and settling himself before his computer. "They care only for themselves - look up to only those who save their pitiful lives. I'm sorry mother, but the human race is just…" He pressed a few buttons, and a new word document popped up onscreen. "…pathetic."

FILE.

SAVE.

"Enter file name," the computer commanded in its dull monotone.

Trunks leaned back in his chair, idly fiddling with the corners of his long bangs as possible titles raced through his mind. The Ultimate Sacrifice? No. The Forgotten Heroes? No! Saviors of the Past and Present?

"No, no, NO!" He slammed the escape key in a hot flush of anger. "I'll just think of the title later."

Placing his fingers on the home row, he flexed his fingers and began to type.

To the humans of the earth.

When you pick up this book, you will have already forgotten the horrors of the androids. As a race, you will move on, never once glancing back into the past to consider what might have been if you had not been saved by a race whose name you have forgotten. Despite all your former cheering and mindless kind words, you will have already misplaced my name with the ghosts of the past.

Allow me to remind you.

My name is Trunks Briefs, and I am the son of a Saiyan.

Some of you might be thinking that I am merely striving to preserve my accomplishments to satisfy my own selfish agenda. Let me assure you that you are wrong. I write to you not to assert my miniscule feats, but to immortalize the astounding history of the race you know nothing about. How does this pertain to you, you ask? Because, although you have forgotten, your race was saved countless times by the Saiyans originally sent to destroy you.

"Agh, this is rubbish," Trunks muttered. "I don't know enough about the Saiyan race to truly chronicle their past. He flicked his eyes once more across what he had written, then, with an angry snort, he hit the power button and let the screen go dark. "If anything, I'll just scare my readers away."

The sun had nearly disappeared beyond the horizon, and Trunks stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. "Maybe my mother can help me," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "It would have been nice if it could have been a surprise, but if I want to make this good, I'll have to get my facts straight."

But even she wouldn't know the history of Vejitaseii. The only one who would have known that was my father.

And he would never tell.

"Perhaps this was a foolish idea after all." Pushing himself out of his chair, he turned on his heel to throw himself down on his bed.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM.

"What the!" He tore over to the window. A huge mushroom cloud of smoke rose ominously over the south district of the city, creating ringlet after ringlet of flying debris as it clawed its way into the sky. The teen's blue eyes flew wide as his Saiyan senses burned dangerously at the back of his mind.

"What power…!" he stammered, momentarily taken aback. Footsteps clattered down the hall behind him, and soon his mother burst into the room, sleep-glazed eyes darting frantically from her son to the open window.

"What happened? Is it the androids?" she asked out of habit, her mind still lost in the twilight zone of REM.

"No, mother, they were destroyed, remember?" Trunks replied quietly, never taking his eyes from the cloud of smoke. "Huh?" The tremendous power level began to fade, threatening to disappear altogether before he could figure out who - or what - it belonged to. Throwing a lightening fast glance over his shoulder, he shouted, "Mother! Stay here, aright? I'm going to go find out what caused that explosion!" Before she could reply, the young Saiyan was out the window and rocketing into the growing twilight.

Bulma jogged to the window, locking her fingers around the windowpane. A familiar ache clutched at her heart, and she bit her lip to quell the growing fear that felt all too natural. "Be careful," she murmured, knowing even if she shouted, he would be too far away to hear.

(A/N: Hehehehehehe… R&R. Peace.)