Disclaimer: Dragonball Z, its characters, and overall ideas, belong to the creator. I obviously am not Akira Toriyama, and must admit that none of the above stated are mine. This story is based more or less on "The History of Trunks" and Felix's story, "Pandora's Box." I asked her permission to post this, and received an affirmative, but I doubt that one Akira Toriyama would reply to such a question.

From inspiration comes many things, stories being only one of them.

"…pride is a beautiful, terrible thing, a seed that bears two vines, life and death." James Hurst, The Scarlet Ibis.

Losing Innocence

Book I

Chapter 1

Their bodies fell like dolls. So carelessly cast aside, they fell limply, and at odd angles. Here and there a head would jut out strangely where necks had been broken . . . it seemed there was no end to the pain . . . the bloodshed.

And the laughter.

Still those damnable twins lived yet, filling the ruin that had become his world with suffering and their own cruel mirth. Strange, that these two beings could cause so much pain, when they seemed so slight. The androids were as tall and graceful as could be, slender as saplings, and pale as the moon. Destruction was never more beautiful, he'd thought, and never was it so deadly.

Heartsick and sore, Trunks pulled himself from the rubble, pushing bodies aside and wearily coming to his feet. Their flesh was warm to the touch, like meat left in the sun too long, but with a hard, rubbery feel to it that made his stomach turn. These people were nothing to the androids . . . nothing but targets that moved at a pathetically slow pace and screamed horribly when they died. These men and women hadn't been killed justly. They hadn't died good, clean deaths . . . they'd died with the impossible hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd save them all.

When Trunks had arrived, so many of them were already gone . . . past hope of saving. And Seventeen, the cocky android with arrogance just short of foolhardiness, held a man by the neck while he toyed and teased him with some vague amusement. He was near dead, and the android looked bored. So Trunks attacked, thinking that perhaps while he was otherwise occupied, Seventeen would be easier to defeat. He'd grabbed the man, and fled to the relative safety of the streets below.

The man was dead before he landed, and two androids were not very happy with him.

After that, his mind stopped recording. He vaguely recalled the civilians' shouts of triumph at his arrival…and later, fighting them. It wasn't exactly what he'd call a long fight. While Eighteen held his attention, Seventeen attacked his flanks, and threw him into the skyscraper.

The impact was enough to daze Trunks, and cripple the support of the tower. The building design, built for surviving earthquakes and other natural disasters, hadn't planned on a teenage demi-Saiyajin being thrown at a speed exceeding one hundred miles per hour at the base of the said tower. The metal had creaked and groaned before giving way, teetering dangerously for some time. Naturally, the people wanted out of there.

The actual cascade started slowly, but it picked up speed as it went on, carrying metal, glass and various other pieces in one huge landslide. The noise was terrible. People were screaming, shrieking, and crying out in despair and pain as the heavy pieces pinned them to the ground. They ran all around him, flying down stairs in huge, chaotic herds. But he couldn't help them. Not when the interior machines exploded in starbursts, leaving hair skin, and plastic burnt, and not when they were trapped in a coffin that had been, only minutes before, their offices. All at an alarming rate.

He couldn't lift an arm, could barely open his eyes, when the people begged him to get them to safety.

And there were still people who didn't understand, who thought he'd let them win. Perhaps it was those poor fools that hurt him the worst. The ones who survived the initial fall waited for him to deliver the final blow that would rid this world of the evil beings known as Androids. And there were some who hadn't understood at all, and died anyways. They hadn't gotten the point when he crashed into the building, and they wouldn't ever. When the tower collapsed, thousands of people died during that first strike, and hundreds more would die as the surrounding buildings fell like toys.

Hours passed before Trunks had the energy to move. The area was little more than one huge pile of ruble, with only a few pieces left standing. Those pieces he knew would fall soon enough. All around him, the weak and the dying cried out for deliverance, but there was none, as the departments were overrun, and long past their prime. Very few would survive this day.

Using his ability to sense chi, Trunks searched the area for survivors, and slowly began to pull cement, glass and other pieces of debris from their bodies. One by one, he pulled them from the brink of death. But he wasn't fast enough to save them all; he was too tired for that.

Throughout it all, the androids watched in silence. They simply hovered high above them all. Trunks knew their quiet and the inaction they practiced wouldn't last, but for now, this reprieve was something to take advantage of. Lifting a young woman from beneath the shattered remnants of metal, he sighed once. Her life energy was faint. From above, there was nothing.

Slowly flying to a cleared area, he eased her into a vacant spot, hoping the doctors and people who hadn't fled in horror would help her, as he'd done with the others. The girl moaned as he began his way back, intent on saving another life he should have been protecting to begin with, and then she sighed. Her heart's beating filled his ears for a moment, and was still. His shoulders sagged as he tried to hold back his tears of pain and frustration, and he silently apologized to the girl for his weakness.

From above, quiet laughter reached his ears.

Ignore them . . . he cautioned. You're too weak to fight them now. One blow crippled your abilities. Don't fall for the bait . . .

Glancing up briefly, Trunks caught sight of the twins' faces. They seemed amused and delighted at this peculiar form of defeat, and dark mischief haunted their eyes. Seventeen smiled.

As one, they attacked.

To Trunks, the light of a chi blast had always seemed blue. But this awesome power was more than that, at the heart of things. Later, he wouldn't be able to recall the colors he'd never known before, but he would always remember the pain. And the silence. No one screamed. No one ran. But the dead, empty silence echoed like lightening in his mind's eye, and filled the world with dread.

…I'm sorry…

*****

 He drifted. Caught somewhere between reality and dreams, he floated amidst the clouds and on the wind itself. Hazily he realized two unknown people were pulling roughly at his arms, and dragging him through the cold night air. The wind bit at his skin, but it wasn't enough to fully rouse him; he was far too gone for that, so the most it did was irritate him, sleepy though he was.

It was cool outside, but his heart was colder. The loss of so many lives numbed his mind, and was far too much for an unconscious person to realize without going insane. Realization was the last thing on his mind, however, when his mind was working hard not to think about anything.

Short was the trip, but it felt much longer…he was flying, but not of his will. Gohan? He wondered, thinking perhaps it was his mentor. That fleeting assumption was crushed with the twist of an arm and the cruel pain on his back this awkward position was causing him. Gohan was dead, Trunks knew that, he understood the androids had killed him, and albeit he was angry beyond words even now, he wasn't disillusioned. Gohan wouldn't be coming back.

Words drifted in and out of his consciousness, which was odd, seeing that nothing else was coming through, aside from the occasional smell, or fragment of a picture he supposed was the ground far, far below. Two voices. One tenor, filled with dark humor and wit, and the other was an alto, devoid of all amusement, and sounding quite bored.

Finally, the trip was over, and he was flung to the ground like so much garbage. Dimly, he heard someone wail, and for a moment, he thought it could have been his mother. The two who'd been toting him around like some corpse stopped their easy conversation, and said something, short and sweet, as all their words had been while he'd been with them. It was distinctly odd, and stuck out in his mind quite remarkably.

The ground was colder than the air had been, and it stung to lie upon.

He must have been bleeding, because something wet and warm slid down his cheeks. It reminded him of tears, but it was slower and thicker than the solution was.

Why am I bleeding?

The sound of hurried, frantic footsteps filled his existence, and in a few moments, he was enveloped in someone's heavenly warm embrace. He sagged with relief, and tried to open his eyes, tried to show he was alive, but his body wouldn't respond. He couldn't even see.

"Oh, Trunks! I'm so sorry!"

Yeah, he answered. His mouth didn't move, and she made no sign that he'd spoken aloud. Maybe he hadn't. I need to sleep…I'm sorry. I'll try to be better next time…next time…I won't be so weak.

 "Don't die on me, Trunks…don't die on me!"

*****

When he woke, it was dark outside, without the faintest trace of light to signify the dawn or sunset. Feeling cramped, sore and altogether terrible, Trunks decided it was probably a good idea to get up and stretch. Unfortunately for him, his mother didn't seem to think so.

"What do you think you're doing, mister?!" she shrieked upon coming into the room. He was halfway between sitting and lying, and the pause made his back groan in complaint. "Lie back down! Now!" he did. "Oh, Trunks! You're alive!" she cried hysterically, and threw her arms around her son. "I'm so glad you're not dead!"

"…yeah…" he replied, and the past events came flooding through his mind with such intensity and pain he had to wince. The effort it took to stay awake made his shoulders hurt. Hell. It made his entire body hurt. Becoming a Super Saiyajin hadn't helped much, it seemed…loosing Gohan was to no avail.

Gohan.

Friend, teacher, defender, companion…he was like a father to the young demi-Saiyajin. He could do no wrong in his young eyes, and when he was taken away, all those years ago, he'd been defeated. In spite of that defeat, he rose up against the enemies that had slain his almost-brother, and struggled valiantly to avenge the deaths of everyone. He was truly his father's son, Bulma had said. Too damn proud to let anyone beat him, and willing to go through hell to get stronger. To win.

To hurt.

To kill.

No one could stop him, save those two indestructible machines, called Seventeen and Eighteen. Androids. Twins.

"What were you thinking? Were you trying to get yourself killed?!" Bulma railed, still hugging her son. Without his realizing, she'd sat down, and pulled him into a position where she could rock him back and forth like a child without picking him. It was soothing, and it was frustrating. He hurt like hell,  and she wanted to yell at him. Perfect. "I wouldn't have expected you to do that, Trunks! You've been fairly reasonable since--" she cut herself off, and burst into tears.

"Since Gohan died. I know. I wanted to help…they were dying…" he sighed, leaning against his mother.

She took a shaky breath, and looked him directly in the eye. She wanted him to understand, he could see, but it was difficult for many reasons. "You were almost dead, Trunks." She began, quiet at first, and gaining volume as she went on. "Not hurt, not injured. I thought you were dead." She dropped off for a moment, and her voice became so quiet he could barely hear her. "I thought you were nothing but another corpse to burry when they brought you here…I thought you'd finally left me…like everyone else has." She sighed, and her sorrowful, distant look disappeared. "You scared the shit outta me, kid!"

He winced.

"Sorry…"

She continued to glare, unfazed by his apology. "And thanks to you,  Trunks, I haven't slept for three whole days!"

Ouch.  Trunks thought. That stung…blame it on me…

Imagining she saw the unasked question she'd been waiting for in his eyes, she continued. "I've been working on the time machine, and because of your little stunt, what would have taken another few years was accomplished in three. Lousy. Days." She grumbled indistinctly, muttering something about coffee, insane sons, and absolute terror. "Unfortunately, it'll take at least a year to charge." Holding up her hands against any protest he might have had, she hurried onward before he could say a word. "I know, I know! I shouldn't take that long. But that's the way it is, and there's nothing else to it."

"Mom…" he began. "That's nice that you finished your little hobby--"

He could have sworn she grew three sizes bigger, and fangs a demon would envy.

He cringed.

 "Little hobby?" She echoed, annoyance seeping into her voice. "I'll show you, a hobby, mister!"

"…but that's really not going to help…"

She sighed. "I know, sweetie, that you couldn't really understand how important one man could be to the world, but you never met Goku." She shook her head in wonder, not quite believing she'd known such a person herself. Trunks sighed. Here we go again…he thought wearily. "He's the most amazing person you'll ever meet. He's not just strong; he's good, too, like his son, Gohan. But he has a way with people Gohan never picked up. They were both determined, selfless people. They both were incredibly strong, gifted fighters, and really kind. But Goku brought hope with him wherever he went, and although Gohan can inspire any of us, he didn't completely believe he could defeat them. He had to grow up too fast…like you…" she trailed off. "You'll see."

"Mmm…" he murmured, and drifted back to sleep.

"Sleep well, 'kay, Trunks?"

*****

The sun was shining brightly when he opened his eyes again, and though he still felt gritty, and a bit like he'd been thrown into a bee's hive, covered in honey, and rolled through the desert. Needless to say, he'd seen better days. His muscles still ached, and from the painful, springy feeling his right arm was sending him, he'd probably broken it and at least a few ribs. He sighed, and tried to concentrate on the fact that yes, he was alive, and therefore in good condition, since no one else in that exact situation survived.

I should have done something for them…I should have been able to help.  He thought to himself, tracing the patterns of leaves falling in the picture his mother had hung. Maybe she's right. Maybe I do need help.  The latter caught him by surprise; he hadn't really expected himself to believe what his mom had been trying to preach for the past few years.

But what about you? 

Him. Trunks. Memories of how he saw himself-- small, weak and useless --flashed through his mind.

When Gohan was alive, you were certain that if you were there to help him, then the two of you would have defeated the androids.

Those had been the naïve, innocent thoughts of a kid who really didn't understand war.

Maybe you were in the right mind of thinking then, eh? Fighting fire with fire, as the saying goes…two teams against one another. Them. And…

For one moment, he couldn't stand being himself. It was as if he'd given up on Gohan, and was trying to find a loophole so he wouldn't have to do as he'd promised…because he was too weak…because he didn't feel like it anymore. He was playing the devil's advocate.

And who? 

Who indeed. Was Goku a man who was Gohan's opposite, counterpart, equal or better?

A dead guy that couldn't even survive some lame disease? 

Gohan's father…he'd always loved his dad. Trunks couldn't understand that. Wanted to, but couldn't…he couldn't ever love his father. How could he, when he didn't know him? He didn't love, didn't hate. There was no reason.

Is that who I'm supposed to work with? Just because he happens to be one of my mom's childhood friends, and my teacher's father, he's supposed to be perfect?

No one said he was perfect, but the way they spoke of him, it seemed he'd have to be, to fit everyone's expectations. What could it be like to have people think so highly of you?

I can't believe that crap.

No. He couldn't.

So why did it keep coming back in his mind?

I need a bath. And food. Lots of it.

Sitting up slowly, this time expecting the sharp pain and irritated muscles he'd experienced last time, Trunks lifted one arm from beneath the covers. Sure enough, his right arm was broken, and suitably set and put into a cast. Hmm. Mom's never done that before…and for good reason, too; usually Saiyajin bones healed relatively quickly, and required only soft bandage and a few days to a few weeks' rest.

Something about the pain, and the way more than one rod was sticking out of the hard, plaster-like material told him he probably had shattered the damn thing.

Well. That was certainly interesting.

Standing was a far cry from sitting up, and the effort it took almost wasn't worth it. Almost. He clung to the bed like an uncertain three year old, and took a few moments' time to catch his breath before attempting the short walk from here to the shower. He went slowly, and stopped often, being sure to keep a steady pace, and that his feet were on the ground before he put weight on them. It was difficult to tell; his body was numb from fighting.

Not one to let her son stay dirty for long, Bulma had gotten the majority of the dirt off him, and cleaned up the blood. His clothes were a pair of old, soft and deliciously clean nightclothes, even though they were probably filthy by now. He wasn't caked in dirt, exactly, but he felt like it. And only a real bath could solve that kind of problem…

It must have taken him half an hour to get across the room, and his legs were like jelly. If he was too weak to walk, how could he expect to defeat the androids? I'll get better eventually… he answered himself, uncertain and a bit afraid of the 'when' that implied. What if while he walked around here at a snail's pace, the androids went out for half the surviving population? Who would stop them?

Who would care?

Nervous, and not willing to spend the rest of the day in an argument he couldn't win, Trunks pushed the button to open the door, and stumbled into the bath tub. No showers today…he didn't think his legs would hold long enough to fully cleanse himself…let alone get back to bed after that.

So you don't wanna think about the lives you're compromising simply 'cause you're tired, and want a break?  The voice was cold and scathing, and difficult to listen to. Leave it to your conscience to annoy you…

Bathing took a lot longer than it should have, but he felt better afterwards. While he was napping in the tub, his mother must have brought a few towels in, for when he pulled back the curtain and made ready to leave, he noticed a change of clothes-- more pajamas --soft, warm towels, and a comb. His old sleep clothes were nowhere to be found. He smiled, and dried himself off, listening to the sound of water draining. Lips twitching in remembered filth, he recalled the dirty, brown color the water had been the first two times he washed his hair, and the light gray after that. It'd taken a long time to lean himself up, and his hair was tangled because of the slow, gentle pulling of the water.

Changed, and comb in hand, Trunks stumbled across the bathroom floor, and opened the door. He wasn't surprised to find his mother waiting in a chair, and ready to help him back to bed. Impartial to his embarrassment at being so weak, and toughened against his pride as ever, she let him lean on her, despite the awkwardness, and half led, half pulled him back in bed in a few short minutes.

Needless to say, his head was spinning.

She took the brush from him, as she'd done so many times when he was younger, and started to ease the tangles from lavender hair, both slender, long fingered hands working diligently to avoid split ends. He'd forgotten how gentle she could be, and how soothing having one's hair brushed could feel. It was a nice gesture, and worthy of his respect. He leaned against her, content to let her do the work as he half dozed, listening to the beating of her heart.

Mothers were nice people to have around.

"You feeling any better, sweetie?" she murmured, intent on untangling a particularly vicious knot, and not really paying attention to his sleepy replies.

Her low tones were hard to concentrate on at the moment, and Trunks was having a very hard time keeping his eyes open. "Mm…"

"Well, I got some work done on the time machine…got the stall period down a month already. So we're down to eleven months instead of twelve, Trunks! Isn't that great?" she preened, the very picture of an ecstatic mother.

"Yeah…that's great…" he mumbled, trying to remember what a time machine was, and what it was supposed to do. Wasn't it a new toaster? Why would a toaster take eleven months?

Lightly punching his relatively uninjured arm, Bulma frowned at him, indignant. "Well, I expect a little more appreciation than that, mister! Don't you realize how hard I'm working?" On second thought, maybe he was wrong about the 'concentrating on hair' part.

He yawned. "Thank you very much for the new toaster, mom…" he murmured.

Startled laughter met his ears, a full, ringing noise he hadn't heard for many months. It shocked him into wakefulness, and brought a smile to his face. It was nice to hear his mother laugh again; he'd been sure she never would. Another reason to fight for.

And never give up…

"Toaster?" she choked, amusement filling the word. "You must be really out of it, kiddo, 'cause a time machine 'ain't got nothin' to do with bread and everything to do with the future." He didn't care how stupid he sounded. He wanted his mom to keep laughing, and stay happy. Never mind his dignity.

"…oh…"

"So have you made up your mind yet? I know it's a little soon, and we've got a lot of time to go, but I've worked so long on this and I don't want it to go to waste; I just wanted to help you because you're always working so hard and I thought maybe I could do something to let you grow up in a nice, safe place the way I wanted you to..." she trailed off. Trunks blinked. That was a long sentence. And spoken at that rate, I'm not surprised I understood half that…

"Uh."

"I thought so." She murmured, happy and relived to have gotten that splinter out of the way. "So what do you want for breakfast?" his hair was most of the way brushed by now, with only the worst tangles left to work out. "I was thinking maybe a little of everything…" she trailed off, doubtless thinking of the many kinds of food she liked to prepare for breakfast. "Kami knows Saiyajin eat a hell of a lot when they're recuperating." She laughed shortly, thinking of the many, many other times he or Gohan had eaten her out of house and home while waiting to get out of the house. "You up for breakfast, or do you want to catch some z's first?"

Trunks blinked, weighing his options carefully. "Hair, food, sleep." He decided.

She laughed. "I can see you've got your priorities straitened out!" She chuckled, and leaned over to look him in the eyes, delicately raising one eyebrow. "Although I must admit, I am a bit worried…a Saiyajin, putting off food? What has the world come to?"

"It's come to think that one must be clean to enjoy food." He replied calmly, hoping he'd heard right.

Well, that certainly amused her. He smiled.

After a few more minutes of the hair-brushing crusade, Bulma proclaimed his hair in proper condition, and helped him off the bed and to the table in the center of the room. By the looks of things, she'd planned on his acceptance of food, and come prepared; the table was long enough to seat twenty, and not too wide for her to comfortably reach things. To Trunks, tired, sleepy and not certain he was starving half to death, it looked like heaven.

She disappeared out the door, and a few minutes later, came back, pushing one cart full of food, and pulling another. Trunks' stomach grumbled. He didn't bother asking where she'd gotten the carts, or when she'd prepared the food, and simply worried about when he could eat it. She gave him a look. He sighed unhappily, and waited the ten minutes it took to set the table, and pull a few more carts into the room. At last, he was permitted to eat to his heart's content, and according to Bulma, his mouth expanded to fit roughly the size of an elephant in each bite.

So much for nice, wonderful mothers who didn't torture their sons with embarrassing similes…

For the most part, he ignored her playful jabs, and just ate,  not dropping, spilling or wasting a drop. As a result, he, unlike Gohan upon occasion, wasn't ordered to wash up after dinner as well as he had before, and simply needed to brush his teeth. This he did without complaint.

For the next few weeks, life continued like this, with his mother working on altering the infamous "toaster" between his naps. This was his slow, steady road to recovery, and for a time, he knew some peace. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was the calm before the storm, however, and kept a diligent eye out for trouble even as he learned to walk anew, and trained at the lowest possible frequency to keep his body fit.

A little more than a month later, the time machine had been modified to need only eight months worth of charging, and that was about as fine-tuned as his mother could make it without stripping her lab of materials. Only then would she permit Trunks to leave the house and patrol the lands, though he'd been doing so for a long time coming as it was. She knew about this, and never said a word, taking care to mention Goku every day, until finally, he gave in. His heart was committed to the task, as she doubtless would have wanted.

And, as she hoped, as Gohan would have liked.

This time around, things would be different.

This time, things would turn out for the better, and the world wouldn't have to suffer a terrible blow from the beings known as androids.

Was this what he wanted?

Was this what he fought for?

For peace.

For hope.

For family.

*****

To be continued. The next chapter should be out by Friday the 18th.

Comments, criticism and rants would be greatly appreciated.