Summary: Before Mirai Trunks enters the time machine, he reflects.
Author's notes: Short little appetiser to get my feet wet in a new fandom. In other words: first Dragonball Z fan fiction. Big thanks as always to my wonderful beta-reader, WeasleyTwin2, who I quite simply couldn't get by without.
Hope.
There is this man, I barely know ...
Hope. It could keep a man breathing, engulf him in its fragile innocence. It could be mother, lover, ultimately a betrayer. For Hope was the final fury cast from Pandora's box, the last of the conflicts. Man had been wrong to assume that the last conflict was their saviour, neglected to wonder why Hope had been in the box in the first place. For, although Hope could save a man, it could crush him just as easily.
Here, it could be deadly.
Many had fallen foul of Hope. Fairy tales and dreams had spurred people on, and many had chosen to live in their fantasy worlds over the torrid reality that had such a suffocating grasp on them all. Denial was a well versed friend of Hope, and together they had destroyed a world that perhaps once could have fought back.
But they hadn't. Too few of them had stood up against the threat, and time had whittled down those who dared to, destroying them with an ease that made others too fearful to take the fallen fews place.
Hope had destroyed those who believed they could make a difference, and Hope had led to the destruction of their world when others believed that 'someone else' would save them from their fate.
He was that 'someone else'; not by virtue, not by talent but simply by default. Hope had destroyed all other candidates, and it was his turn to be placed on her alter, to be sacrificed in her name. Could one be sacrificed to a God one did not believe in? Hope had been robbed from him as a child, he was not so foolish as to fall prey to her whims for a second time.
Others had died, the last time he had.
His mother still believed that good could come from Hope, that to abandon it would be to lose a part of your soul. She believed that one could not be human if one had no hope, even if it was only a muted ember, buried far from sight or heart.
But he wasn't human. Only an alien half-breed. An alien half-breed with grand allusions of saving a world that those who had been far stronger, far more capable had failed to do. His own hope may be absent, but the hopes of others were crashing down in waves on his shoulders.
He pitied them. Hated them. Longed to be one of them. How easy it would be to let Hope in, to give it control of his heart and mind, to willingly let it seep into his thoughts, dictate his actions. To be one of Hope's pawns was to be innocent. Or delusional. Perhaps both.
Gohan had tried to teach him hope, had tried to give him some form of normality in this twisted reality they were existing in. And it was merely existing, he refused to believe that *this* could be living. Mother had told him tales of what the earth had once been like, of a freedom that was protected and nurtured by all, where wrongs could be corrected with an almost insane simplicity. The past was as surreal as those childhood fairy tales, of Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty, his world resembled more of a Brothers Grimm version of the past than the sugar coated life those who had gone before had lived.
He had let go of Hope, it would have been too dangerous, too risky to hold onto a dream when reality had to first be dealt with. If one hoped, then there was a part of them that was not focused on the present, but an unreachable future. That one ounce could cause one to lose focus, or distract even minutely from the task that had to come before the dream. Once one had lost, there was no chance for retribution. You could blame Hope for enticing you in her spell, but what good was that when you were dead? A world's dreams laid shattered at your feet, because you couldn't separate yourself from your own.
But even Hope was dying on this decaying planet, being crumbled like a pathetic flower under the oppressing stench of fear. Hope could only live for so long, masquerade the world from what it really was, when there was still a shred of the old laced in. Forgotten cities, aged youths - they were taking the place of memories that were fading like a piece of old parchment, weathered and battered by time and use. Bleakness was beginning to settle in, and with bleakness, came despair.
He knew despair. He'd lived it for 17 years. You could bury it under anger and resentment, determination and dedication, but it was always there. Taunting. Teasing. Never letting you forget for even a moment the hellish world that you had inherited. A world that you were expected to save.
Alone.
Always alone.
His mother was everything to him, yet she clung to the past, embracing her sweet dreams and memories. They were her dreams, her salvation, and she guarded them greedily. If only she would share, just a smidgen of them, yet his father remained forever hers, and he was never to get a peak.
Until now.
Mother loved him, he had never doubted such a thing - even this torrid world had left him with a handful of emotions in tact, and love was one of them. She still felt, still mourned, still experienced joy. It was just that she loved her past more. A past he was not part of.
He couldn't blame her. Could never have blamed her. Who wouldn't wish for a time when they were at peace and in the arms of someone they loved? Or didn't love. She never spoke of him ...
He was weary. This war was one he had fought too long, a crusade that was crushing in its solitude. He wanted to mourn a youth he had never known, yet mourning had become something trivial. There were only so many dead bodies, so many rushed and frantically organised funerals one could attend before it all became routine.
Hope had once filled their eyes. Hope had been their downfall.
Hope was now their only possible saviour.
He circled the machine, a callused hand tracing over the smooth surface. There was something almost ... pure about it, and he felt dirty and unworthy standing beside it. The hard work of a tiny handful of people had gone into creating this, yet it would be fuelled by the dreams of millions.
Gah. The damn thing must be rubbing off on him, he was starting to sound like one of those preppy politicians who had long since fled to whatever safe house had been arranged for them in times such as these.
Empty words, empty promises. They had never had the ability to save them all, only themselves. It wasn't bitterness or jealousy, over the fact that they had left *him* to deal with their problems. Simply blunt honesty.
And now, it was time to play the final round. The past that had so long belonged to his mother was now calling to him, forbidden promises laced into each feathered whisper. Their last chance of being saved, and the opportunity for his own dreams, so often pushed aside or neglected in the name of necessity, were suddenly about to be realised.
He'd, he'd never thought it would be possible ...
His hand stilled over the lettering that had been etched onto the machine. Experimentally, he ran a finger gently over the paint, caressing it like a long forgotten friend, innocent memories from long ago making a long awaited appearance.
"Hello, Hope," he whispered softly, closing his eyes. "It's been a long time."
There is this man, I barely know ...
FIN.