Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z, and would rather not take credit for this chapter…
Warnings: UNEDITED. Please save Meghan a huge chore and point out any and all grammatical errors you find. She's miffed enough at me as it is… Um. Angst. Confusion. AU (different). Probably plot holes due to the unedited nature, and new characters who need more definition. Many dream sequences, which translates to 'really confusing parts.'
Author's Note: I've decided to label this 'Book II' because it takes a completely different outlook than the other chapters, and 'Chapter 1' because it wouldn't make sense to call it Chapter 7…I'd rather not make it a different story altogether, thus the 'strange titling.'
Loosing Innocence
Book II
by Taes Willett
Chapter 1
The first thing he was truly aware of was the noise. The wind whistled in his ears, bringing him swiftly out of his sleep-fuddled state, and smartly into full consciousness. The pressure around him felt odd after staying so long in space. There he felt nothing at all…not even the ghost of emotion…
Perhaps he should find some relief in the sensation, for surely feeling something was better than nothing at all. He felt dead inside, he felt too much like an animated corpse, walking the earth with no semblance of true self. On top of that, however, there was the distinctive sentiment he could only describe as despair…and that damned annoying noise. Oh, Kami…why the hell does falling have to be so loud?
He was too weak to correct his fall, and as a result, he'd probably end up slamming head first into the ground. Under normal circumstances, that wouldn't be too much of a problem, but with his energy being so low, he lacked the added bone protection chi gave him, and would probably break his neck.
Did saving the universe always take this much out of a person?
If so, maybe it'd be a good idea just to let the fall kill him.
The pressure increased as he fell, and so did the level of noise. He was coming out of the clouds, though he couldn't remember for his life how he'd come to be there. Oh Kami… his head hurt. Trunks closed his eyes.
I survived the death of a universe, my own grief, and something as stupid as this kills me…damn…and here I was thinking grief would win out.
Wherever he was, the light was cutting through his eyelids in the most unusual manner, leading Trunks to believe maybe he hadn't shut them after all. Shoving his grief aside for the moment, he looked around, trying to find the position of the sun. He found it in the west, naturally, where the brilliant colors bled into one another like spilt paint. His heart nearly stopped. It was beautiful…nothing on Earth could compare to that blood-red disk that hung in the air, filling the sky with its sorrow. Only a planet with serious pollution problems can have such sunsets… the thought, spurned by one of his mother's campaigns long ago, caught him by surprise. Where was he, to see such a thing…?
Not Earth, surely not Earth…his planet, though ruined and beyond repair in his timeline, never had such a problem.
No, no…it couldn't be Earth…
Concern for his beloved planet overrode his despair, pushing it further out of his mind as he stared at the death of a day, swiftly falling through the air. The longer he descended, the faster he plunged. Accelerating at a rate of 9.8 meters per second squared…if this is Earth. Kami help him, he wished it weren't.
Was it selfish, to wish this fate upon another planet?
The pressure grew even greater as time went on, and at last he felt consciousness depart…leaving him once more to the mercy of dreams.
*****
Terror surrounded him, engulfing his heart in a stiff shell of fear that couldn't be penetrated for the world. Thoughts of the androids and their murders flooded his mind, and their strength resounded in his memories. Their smiles, cruel and merciless, were there to taunt, and no matter what kind of attacks he made on them they wouldn't show so much as a bruise.
It was as if he were fighting in a cloud thicker than he would have thought possible. He couldn't see what he was doing, and as a result, had to rely completely on his chi sense to do what his eyes couldn't. Unfortunately for him, the androids never had been ones for using their chi; they relied on their bio-ware, their enhanced speed and strength brought on by science, not what their spirit lent them.
But that's what gave him the advantage. He was fighting to save those he loved. …a bit late for that, wouldn't you say? They fought because they were bored, if not sheer enjoyment. Desperation makes a powerful foe, and the more they fought at him, the more that emotion, coupled with fear, drove him to higher strengths. Sometimes one has to throw caution to the wind, he thought, wishing he'd taken the time to tie his lavender hair from his eyes.
…lavender?
They traded blow after blow, with no signs of weakness on their part, but already Trunks found himself slowing, desperation turning fast into stupidity. I don't need this now! He thought vaguely, concentrating on the fight.
Eighteen swung around in a blinding circle of impossible speed, putting force enough into the round about kick to knock even a half-Saiyajin to the floor. He winced in pain, trying frantically to clear his head and open his eyes. Why the hell is it so hard to open my fucking eyes?!?! Finally, his struggle ceased, and the dirty scenery gave way to crisp night air, and an unforgettable view of the ocean…
…silhouetted against the brilliant sky was a slender figure, somehow familiar, despite the unrecognizable stance. The dark curls, loose as ever, gave him away. Blinking in utter surprise, Trunks realized his hand moved by its own accord. His stark white skin was more apparent than ever in the moonlight, but the boy did nothing but smile.
And this time, there was no sadness in it.
Finally, Trunks felt himself relax, fighter's stance easing into a comfortable pose. How he'd become so at ease with a stranger he barely knew, he'd no idea, but there was something about this guy--
--an outstretched hand slammed into his unprotected flank, knocking the already disturbed teenager off balance and the building. The fall was shorter than he'd expected, but the force he'd been pushed at was great enough to make up for that. He was buried in two tons of rubble from one backhanded swipe he should have seen coming.
What the hell?
With a burst of energy, Trunks flew through the debris and back onto the mock 'arena' and prepared himself for battle once more. Eighteen smirked, her cold blue eyes giving nothing away as she evaluated his remaining energy. Her pose was relaxed, almost as if she were just watching the sunset with passing interest, and not fighting a deadly serious battle with one of the world's strongest fighters. With a toss of her head, she turned away, arrogance written all over her delicate features.
"Pathetic."
With that, she walked away.
Trunks stared, unsure what to do. He was done for if she decided to finish this fight, but if she let her guard down . . . he could get a few blows in that might actually damage her. His heart urged him to attack, to avenge the millions of deaths she was responsible for . . . his mind, exhausted and heartsick, pleaded with him to quit, to save this for another day where he had more energy. This was no battle he could win, his mind told him, but his heart said he must try.
Where would we be, if no one tried to save us?
…dead.
That was answer enough for him. A ghost of a smile played across his face, determination coloring his eyes a darker shade. Pooling his energy into a tight ball, Trunks leapt up, and charged head on, moving at a speed he would've labeled impossible a few seconds before. Desperation will do that for you, his subconscious supplied. Whatever he had left was going into this blast, and that was nothing to laugh at.
The blond android barely turned, that smirk still showing. So she'd expected this after all. Well. Time he showed her what a Saiyajin was really made out of. Forcing his energy up and out, Trunks focused the supply into a tiny, condensed ball with enough force to destroy a good deal of the ground.
So much for holding back, he thought vaguely, still concentrating on the task at hand. Mom is going to be pissed if I get myself killed.
With that final thought, Trunks released the chi blast, and met head-to-head with the slender, seemingly delicate android called Eighteen. Dark eyes widened in surprise, a wordless question written clearly in those crystal like orbs. A choked cry escaped red lips, a pale face gone unhealthily white from either lack of blood or shock, Trunks couldn't tell. The slight form shuddered once, long hair sticking to a messy chest wound that should have been cauterized instantly.
Oh, god… ohgodohgodohgodoh…what…?
"Trunks…?"
Pulling back, Trunks felt his hair settle into its customary position, the golden hair he sported as a Super-Saiyajin fading fast into violet. He grabbed helplessly at the boy, trying to support him as he raked his mind for something he could do…
There was nothing.
"Oh, god . . . I'm sorry Red . . . I'm so sorry . . ." the words kept pouring from his mouth, unstoppable as his lifeblood pooled from an impossible wound. Why the hell wasn't that cauterized? The heat…
Another forceful strike to his head sent his mind wheeling. "You fool!" Eighteen crowed, blond hair flying upward like a personal halo as she landed with a neat twist. "Why didn't you finish it?" she smirked. "Sentimental idiot. Do you really think I'll change just because you think I should?"
"I…"
"Deserve to die." She smirked. "Now fight me! None of your holding back!" rage drove the android into a fury of blows Trunks was hard pressed to block, or even dodge. She'd taken his performance as a personal insult, and the result was something he'd never wanted to experience. An android, fighting all out, honestly doing her best to kill him . . . or, maybe, push him to limits he didn't know he had.
Suddenly the barrage lifted, and the girl spun into the air once again, a missile with precision accurate enough to make the boy blink. Scrambling out of the way, the boy tried in vain to regain his composure soon enough to create some sort of defense against her assault. The attempt was useless, and as her body mass and force of energy combined with the acceleration speed she gained, he knew he wasn't likely to survive this particular blow with only a few broken bones.
Cringing, he prepared himself for the attack, and ran through his options while he still had time. Damn. There aren't any? Shit.
Eighteen hit with even more force than he'd anticipated, throwing him into the side of the closest building, through more walls than he cared to count. The misjudgment sent his mind whirling for a moment, but the half-Saiyajin recovered quickly, springing up and out to avoid the terrible power that wanted him.
Helplessly pulling himself up, Trunks tried not to think about the damage done with that one blow on top of everything else that'd happened. Carefully stretching out, he realized he'd cracked a large number of ribs, and probably broken at least two. Another blow like that, and he'd definitely be sporting more problems . . .
A wave of energy passed overhead, and Trunks felt his own defenses rise in response. He knew his hair had gone from its customary lavender color to a blinding white-blond that glowed with supernatural power, while he looked out at the world through green eyes. Eighteen didn't hesitate a moment, merely looking at his transformation as an added bonus, or just another part of the game. A game? Oh Kami…help me… This time, she plays for keeps.
Their fight resumed at a whole new level, the two of them trading chi blasts as if they'd all the energy and time in the world. Eighteen was keeping her infuriatingly cool expression, and Trunks felt his power decrease with every damning blow he took, rising only for his sheer determination to survive this encounter. Beasts of hell couldn't be more ruthless in his mind, and nothing could stop him. Not this time. For once, he'd be the one to walk away…there'd be no more bodies left by this android.
The scenery around them was changing before their eyes, entire buildings falling to rubble before their might, crushing whatever was left under the weight of energy no living thing could withstand. Trunks knew there were no people in this area, but he couldn't help but wonder as the towers fell around him if he could always be accurate. Would he hesitate to destroy Eighteen if it looked as if someone might die because of it?
Not if that someone's me, he thought.
Anger built up in his heart, filling it with such unbroken hatred he couldn't bear it. His body moved faster than he could think, reacting to hers with nary a glance. His mind barely followed the fight, until finally the anger wore off, some thirty minutes later, if time was any judge, and something else took its place. His heart, so filled with that awful, consuming fury, would have burst under the strain, but this was no easier to witness. His anger turned to leaden sorrow, an ache that gave way to pity for himself, and this android that called herself Eighteen.
Not even pity could stop him, though. Blow after blow, he wore down at her defenses, not thinking, not consciously trying to do more than breathe. Tears stung his eyes, but that wasn't really what held him. His mother, so beautiful in her prime, was hardly more than a shell of her former self. They'd done this to her, and they'd pay for that. He knew it; wanted it. They'd taken her from him, made him grow up in a world where his family was torn apart, where nothing could really flourish…only grow old, and die.
Old, according to the androids, could be as young as twelve. Or as old as Gohan had been…
Something darker flashed in his mind, a universe filled with glowing pinpricks of light that could only be stars. He saw nothing of the androids here, and precious little of the planet called earth. From this vantage point, the sphere was little more than a crescent, a tiny sliver of blue and white that couldn't possibly hold the amount of life it did…even so little life as what the androids had left.
A figure floated not far from him, a glowing, terrifying thing made of pure energy. Trunks shrank back instinctively, knowing he, even in his Super Saiyajin form, couldn't hope to compare to this awful being. His hands clenched shut, and for a moment, he wondered if the androids could stand against this…person.
With some observation, Trunks realized the creature, despite its appearance, was hardly made of energy... merely surrounded by huge amounts of it. This wasn't a comforting thought. With some unease, he lowered his chi sense to nil, trying to find relative safety in that. But the person, whoever they were, had little interest in him, and concentrated on whatever they'd been doing.
Squinting, Trunks leaned forward a little, trying to get an idea what the being intended to do. The energy it amassed was amazing; more than he could handle even as he was now. Finally, the center of the world started glowing, and voices, faceless in the depths of space, cried out for someone to stop.
…I…me.
Oh, god…they're talking to…that's me…
Throwing up a shield, Trunks tore down whatever other defenses he had in place, concentrating on creating an energy field strong enough to deflect this attack, knowing in his heart there was none. He was beyond prayer, beyond hope when this boy, this Saiyajin attacked. When I attack.
How can this be? I can't have…it's not possible.
Retribution? Understanding only occurs with time, and nothing can force time to repeat itself so soon. That is for humans to do, not Time. So there was hardly a word to be said, and nothing he could do to stop it from happening. So. I survive it the first time, and get wiped out when it's not me throwing the plays. Great.
The shield he'd thrown together wouldn't cut it. Not even thinking about the damage he could possibly do to himself, and the world below him, Trunks took a deep breath. And attacked.
*****
All around them, lights flashed and sirens rang, cutting into delicate ears with annoying persistency. The footsteps of men and women clashed loudly with the less poignant sound of the wind, even though they were far off as of yet. They'd heard his crash, and came to investigate. As far as Trunks could tell, the crater was large, and it was definitely big enough to become a small lake. Strangely enough, it was not the size it should have been. He'd fallen from the outer regions of the atmosphere, and this pockmark wasn't nearly as big as it should be…
The only possible explanation was a decrease in speed before he hit, and he wasn't anywhere near strong enough to do something like that at this point in time. But how…?
"Someone call an ambulance! We've got a man down!" a woman screamed into a communication device, and though she was more than a few feet away, the noise jarred his ears more than he'd like to admit.
"Shit! He's not wearing a jumpsuit…not a thing to keep him from breakin' his back…" another trailed off, this one older than the woman, and male. "We're bound to have a trauma case with this one, folks…now…one question: is he theirs or ours? What craft left their man to die?"
The people hurried to and fro, trying to gauge what kind of injuries had been inflicted on him. Finally, one of them answered the old man's question. "He ain't wearin' a uniform…could be anybody's." there was silence for a moment. "He could be a spy."
"He could be dead, soldier, if we don't take care of him now!" there was true annoyance in the man's voice now, and a deadly promise if he wasn't obeyed instantly.
"Yes, sir!"
Finally someone gathered courage enough to move closer, and turn him right side up. He was vaguely amused to find it was the woman, and not the man who'd contradicted his superior, that did it. Her hands were large for a woman's, and callused, unlike his mother's. With a normal human, if she chose to move him, then there would be an inconceivably high risk of paralysis. Fortunately for him, Trunks wasn't all human…
With her large, callused hands she gingerly lent support to his cramping neck, and carefully pulled him up and off the ground, only to lay him flat on his back. With such dense muscle tissue, he weighed far more than a human boy his side would, and that would come as quite a surprise to the female soldier. Trunks moaned softly, unable to withstand the sharp pain caused by his abrupt change of positions.
"God almighty…he's alive!" the woman called, relief surfacing in her voice, tired though she was. "Now where the hell's that ambulance?!"
Similarly, there was relief in the old man's voice as well. "Coming, Major. It's on its way." He paused.
Trunks sighed. Ambulance? Major? He could be only one place…there were no other planets he knew of that would use the same terminology, at least not the kind he was accustomed to. "…where…?" the question was hardly more than a sigh, and he wasn't awake enough to be sure of the answer.
There was something in his voice that brought death to mind. It was something that screamed of blood and torment, vivid scarlet on bone white skin, and the massacre of millions. Here was a man, a child, who should have given up life-- hope --long ago, but miracle of miracles, struggled incessantly against the inevitable, keeping his head high and manner calm. Yet despite his valiant efforts, there was an air of such desolation about him one could do naught but weep silently. What kind of a world would do this to so noble a spirit? What cruelty left such a boy to destruction?
To war?
There was nothing for it, and those gathered amongst the rubble where a swamp had been minutes before renewed their resolve. This child, this soldier of death, would not be left for the vultures. Earth could claim her child another time; he was theirs to receive, and theirs to comfort. The bleeding tree could wait as of yet, for no child would lie beneath…by the powers that upheld them, it would be so.
"Let's move! God damn it, Marshal, he's not a dead man yet…so let's get that fucking ambulance here now!" The major's voice rang like thunder in Trunks' ears, and certainly held enough authority to move even the most reluctant man. Though his ears worked wondrously, his eyes were neither completely open nor completely shut, but the twilight-- closer to dusk by this time --shone through the cracks like blood seeping through his fingers…
"You're just north of Fort Demoines, soldier," the major replied after a moment's hesitation. Her voice was a strange mixture of sorrow, determination and anger, similar to Goku's, of all people…but…he was…
"…dead…every--" he chocked, shoulders shaking and breath coming in short, labored gasps. "It's all…my fault…" visions of the worlds he'd demolished filled his mind alongside the people he'd sacrificed for all else…shouldn't they have gotten a choice? His rational mind argued no, they shouldn't have, for doomed souls argued vengeance and yearned for naught but bloodshed…even the most peaceful would resort to one of the many natural instincts. To kill…an eye for an eye. Justice.
The major stiffened noticeably at his self-accusation, desperation, helplessness and anger flared in her amber eyes, undirected and unfocused. Such fury was not good for the soul; it caused difficultly in definition and control. Such raw emotions irritated Trunks for the most part, and left him feeling abused and disheveled. "Rest assured, soldier, this wasn't your fault. The dogs who caused this monstrosity are the fiends we've fought so long…we'll avenge your comrades!"
No, no…you've got it all wrong…he thought, quietly trying to fend off the onslaught of fear, despair and disappointment before his heart broke. But he couldn't do a thing; his body was too tired, too exhausted to follow his commands. He felt hollow…like a dead man walking; with only memories and sharp, stinging pain to remind him that yes, he lived as of yet. And there was that annoying, nagging sense of hope-- at relief and unnoticed joy at being alive. Nothing in the worlds, not even death, not murder, was worth suicide without cause.
Life can be a damned thing.
As the ambulance drove into view, carefully stopping at the edge of the crater and sending a team to receive him, Trunks' vision began to fade, leaving the sorrowful boy alone…again.
*****
Pain. Always the same merciless ache that burned deeper than flesh, a stinging reminder of what he was not. For all of eternity, it seemed, he'd been lying here, waiting for death to ease his hurts, trying not to remember why he felt the way he did . . . but with awareness came memory, and that was less pleasant than the sores.
Midnight eyes flashed open, and stars twinkled and died in the space of a breath, just as others sparkled into existence, forever continuing the cycle that would not-- could not --continue where it was intended. He saw, but his eyes were unseeing, filled with memories too profound to comprehend. A nameless sorrow drew itself over the tormented warrior, if he could be called that, and whatever was left of his battered sense of self cringed.
Too much. Red had simply asked too much . . . he may have survived, but what was there in that?
They're alive, somewhere… But it wasn't the same.
He'd never known them, as a child, and had only begun to get a feel for their personalities in the brief amount of time he'd known them. They were dead, for all the gods' sakes, and nothing would change that. People of remarkable similarity may exist still, but they, with the unique traits that made them up, were dead.
His fault.
Somehow he uttered a whisper of the agony he felt growing inside him, a small shadow of a whimper, a moan that could hardly be classified as noise. In his mind's eye, the endless chasm that was space filled infinity, until power enough to cripple even that roused itself within him, pulling it all inside. Inside, inside, where it will all stay until Death claims the day…
My fault, my fault…stupid, really…'not old enough to love as yet, but old enough to die indeed . . .'
It was sheer folly to agree to Red's terms, even if he was right. Trunks was born and raised to prevent idiots like him from destroying entire universes. Not that Red was an idiot. More likely I am.
If wishes could carry the weight of the world, couldn't he just…wish the problem away? Whatever it was. Something about everything in existence dying, maybe that was it…
With a sigh unuttered and unheard, consciousness loosed its hold on him, returning the half-Saiyajin to restless slumber once again. Ever loyal, the winking stars followed obediently, playing out his memories in precise detail. One, two, three, one, two, three…over and over. A slow, haunting waltz began to form in his mind, and in one smooth transition, dancers-- his dead friends --appeared from nothingness.
Gone were the memories. Back to the illusions once more.
*****
In one moment's reprise, consciousness seized him with the ruthless persistency he'd come to associate with evil. The quiet lull of his soft, enveloping bed nearly pulled him back to sleep, but the nightmares were too fresh on his mind to surrender so easily. Besides, there was something disturbingly unfamiliar about this resting place. Something painful, and something unknown.
It stank of fear, hatred, and hopelessness.
His eyes snapped open, revealing a low white ceiling that had started yellowing around the corners-- if it was due to age or ill repair, Trunks couldn't tell --and two not-so-white walls around him. It was a large room, but heavy curtains, once white, but now a muted gray like everything else around him, separated it into unknown portions. It was a bleak, disheartening place, and for once he was not hard pressed to see how the occupants could give up hope so easily. A prolonged period of time here would kill even the most optimistic people's hopes.
Slowly, he began to recognize the low ringing going through his head was a vaguely familiar voice, and not gravel scraping against his skin. Someone was speaking while moving papers about. There was another noise coming from the room, though it wasn't nearly so distinguishable, it held a memorable tone in his mind; it was the soft murmur of a machine whirling away, preceding with its business as though he and the rest of the world didn't exist. At home, he'd been around such mechanisms since he was a child, and rather than startling him, it eased his thoughts into more manageable streams.
For a moment, the words spoken meant nothing to him, coming across as mere sounds, and not a thing more. The intonation was varied and smooth, with jumps that best fit the length of the phrase, and connected one to another. But it was the precise, crisp way the person enunciated that cut through the wall barring actual understanding, and into his mind.
"--need you to take care of the boy. The tests show that his mind is still active, and has yet to cease reacting to outside stimulants. A coma is not a synonym for dead, do you understand me?" the person, a woman, he assumed, firmly pressed something into the other's hands, without the flash most would use when making a point. "I want a full report by the end of next week; you're not so overrun you can't handle that, soldier. The damn rebels don't spare lives on purpose."
Somehow he managed to listen and distinguish one word from another, but neither heard nor understood anything. Dazed and confused, he pushed himself to a sitting position and tried to focus on the speaking woman's face, looking over the more delicate blond beside her for barely a moment. Blinking in surprise, he realized with a start that the major, an angry, frustrated woman with an easy sense of control, and this cool headed, decisive lady were one and the same.
His chest shook, and his head throbbed. Slowly, he breathed in, but the tightening muscles hurt like hell, and wouldn't allow for any air to enter. He whimpered softly, hissing in efforts to ease the ache.
Both women turned at the noise, and the blond squeaked in sudden shock, dropping the papers the major handed her. The major, for her part, seemed only mildly taken aback. She lifted an eyebrow, and spoke directly to the boy, her low, soothing voice fading into the background as the mechanical whirl overrode his senses. She was talking, yes, but the words reverted to nonsense with the return of pain, and he couldn't decipher a word of it.
"What?" he slowly asked, and let his head hang, trying to quell the agony communication created. He was interrupting her nearly melodic speech with a slow question that grated his nerves. His tone was low and more akin to an animal's than a man's. It irritated his throat as if he'd swallowed gravel, not simply spoken a word. "I can't…"
She frowned, and moved forward at a slow pace, cautious and secure in her actions as if he were a bird; easily startled and best approached with care. Slowly, she began to speak again, and this time, a few words jumped out at him, becoming clear and refined against the backdrop her speech created. "…remember…happened?" she paused. "….name…soldier…." waiting for him to respond, she left off a moment. He did not look up. "…lucky…survived." Her voice trailed off, and the only noise in the room came from the other girl, and the machines.
The blond, a young woman he'd assumed to be a nurse, shuffled incessantly, trying to organize the papers she'd dropped. Trunks assumed she'd been taking her time to hear the conversation between the major and he, but there really was no way to tell.
"…water?" he asked finally, after the silence became too much for him to stand. The major nodded-- funny, how he could hear such simple movements, when sight gave up for him --and walked across the room. The sound of falling water clearly cut the noise that persisted, and his dry throat tightened and cracked at the thought of it. How long had it been since he'd last awoken?
Swallowing, and scraping his throat for the effort, he decided it must have been some time.
Less than a minute later, and a cool cup was thrust in his face. Slowly, he let go of his head, and looked the major in the eye, wondering what kind of person he'd find. Manners were one thing, but personality was another. Her eyes widened a fraction, and both her eyebrows rose in expression of astonishment, taking the young man aback. He extended one hand, and grasped the vessel firmly, but with enough control to keep it from breaking.
The water was gone in a few seconds, much to his disappointment, and his throat still hurt. The distance from the bed to the water container seemed like an awfully long way. Kami, why…? Sometimes, life really didn't seem worth it. He took a shaky breath. "My name is Trunks Briefs," he murmured, looking the major in the eyes. She met and held his gaze, nodding her understanding.
"What regiment did you serve under?" she asked slowly. He looked at her blankly; the question made no sense to him. She looked a bit concerned, and bit her lip before saying, "Who did you serve under?"
Trunks' confusion increased. "…serve…under?" he echoed.
She sighed. "Where have you been stationed the past few months?"
"I don't…know..." he winced, and put one hand to his head, wondering why it was so tender. "Did I hit my head or what? I can't think clearly, and couldn't understand a word you were saying before." He scowled in annoyance, wishing he'd stayed awake enough to catch his fall. With Gohan's training, shouldn't he have been able to land correctly-- with or without energy? It was damn frustrating.
His expression and easy manner took her off guard, and startled laughter flowed from her lips. She wasn't a pretty woman, but with a smile dancing in her eyes and across her face, she could be called beautiful. "Yes, kid, yes you did."
He smiled slowly, and felt some of the emotional pain ease, and his spirit felt lighter. But he could never forget completely…there was always the soul consuming despair that would follow him to his grave. He sighed, and looked up, wondering why the ceiling, which couldn't be more than a few years old, was so dirty.
"So what do you remember?"
"Falling." He paused, and looked thoughtful. "It was loud, cold, and uncomfortable." Grief flashed across his face, and he looked at the major decisively. "I killed them…it's my fault they're dead." He looked from her to the nurse. "I deserve to…to pay for their lives…the only--"
Anger flared in the major's eyes, and despite his sorry condition, she smacked him-- hard --across the cheek. He blinked, and touched the spot in amazement. "Don't you dare pull that on me! You're no more responsible for their deaths than I am! I swear, soldier, if you go suicidal on me, I'll pull you back from the dead just so I can kill you myself!!" for that moment, he believed her.
"Yes, mo--uh…sir." Cheeks flaming, Trunks looked away, wondering why he'd connected this woman with his mother, of all people, when they were so different from one another.
"Now get some sleep. Know that I fully expect you to take care of yourself until the doctors deem you ready, so you do nothing until they say so. Understood? I won't have you doing anything stupid, kid. We need you alive and well."
"Why…" he coughed, and shivered. She looked at him sharply, as if she were ready to reproach him again. He winced. "Why do you call me soldier…?" Did she know? How could she? Battles, fast, bloody, and full of fury flooded his mind. The stink of death, the nature of beauty transformed into death and rot filled his thoughts, turning any hope for release aside.
She stared at him.
"I'm not…a soldier…" he looked uncomfortable. "I think." Transferring his gaze to her, and hoping without cause to believe she'd know, he held his breath. Would defending the earth against androids be considered the act of a soldier? Was that what he was? Trunks exhaled slowly. "I'm a civilian…aren't I?"
The major dared to look at the nurse, unsure as to how she should respond. "You're not sure…?" Doubt, disbelief and confusion were prominent emotions on her face. Wonder filled her eyes, and the emotions that she'd experienced the first time she saw this striking boy resurfaced. What about him caused such an extreme reaction? She felt it before, and without seeing those strange eyes of his… They became all the pain, hurt and sadness in the universe, with the self-same joy and acclamation life heralds so freely within each star. His eyes. They were obsidian pools, darker than night and yet the same, for in those shining eyes, the starry night was hung. Worlds, planets, comets and suns exploded into being, shone for moments alone, and died. Quiet with melancholy or exuberant, all the stars lived and died as nothing else could.
"Well…I don't believe I'm a soldier, no…" he sighed. "But…because of me, so many have died." He closed his eyes to them for a moment, and bowed his head. "So," he began, "what does that make me?"
Their silence was answer enough.
He smiled ruefully, and looked up; the very picture of dejection and hope come to life. It was an odd match. "I'll tell you, if you won't…" still, they remained silent. "That makes me a murderer.
What, major, do you do to killers?"
Pain filled her eyes, but she said nothing. Her silence was damnable.
"You execute them, no?"
Still, nothing.
"I thought as much…it's the onl--"
"You won't die, Trunks." She interrupted. "Your purpose has not yet been filled, and I do not truly believe you a murderer, nor a civilian. You were meant to be here, and here you shall stay. You will give our men and women hope, and you will offer the strength of leadership we've lacked this far…" she smiled grimly, hope shining. "God has granted you life, and a task no other could perform. You're a soldier, and have been for some time yet.
"War is not new to you, despite your years, and you have something many politicians, generals and other leaders of men have long sought. You have passion, and the true ability to convince others in your truth, your hope. You can pull us out of this bloodbath, and into a new era."
Overawed, Trunks stared at her, mouth agape. "You don't even know me--" he wasn't yet twenty, and not fully done with childhood. Who was he to lead any war, let alone one on an unfamiliar planet, whose cause he cared nothing for, and knew nothing about?
"I don't need to. You have the presence about you." The conviction in her voice was startling, and through her he began to see… in her vision, blood, victory and defeat were as one, but hope glimmered through it all. Strange, how he, the son of Vegeta, would even be considered to become a beacon of hope when it was the Son family who truly inspired the best of mankind.
"I could betray you all--" he'd done so before. Galaxies ended because of him. Nothing could keep him from repeating the same mistake, or from damaging things beyond repair. He couldn't match the androids, he couldn't match Cell, and for Kami's sake, he couldn't even save his father! Who was he to lead? Who was he?
"You wouldn't." In his mind, stars exploded with heavy hearts. He couldn't keep the truth from himself; no one would follow a child who'd failed so utterly. There was sadness within him that anyone could see, and the pain, humiliation and hopelessness enough to last many lifetimes.
"But I have…I betrayed everyone I ever cared for--" traitor. He couldn't be trusted, and any worthwhile relationship was founded on just that; trust. He could never, never reveal him and keep their faith, and yet to do so would kill him. They, with their pride and moral beliefs, could never forgive him even if he did. Loosing was the only option he had.
"Not so."
How could she defy him so? Couldn't she see?
"You weren't there--" No one living was. No one but him.
The most deadly secrets we keep locked inside, and the most lethal of all we keep from all. Even ourselves. His was a secret locked deep within, showing itself within the 'safety' of his thoughts over and over, repeating and changing as old children's rhymes did. The beat was irregular, and the words were never consistent. Only the feelings remained the same, and some of the images.
His friends.
Dying.
"But I could have been. And if I were, I would have understood." They hadn't. Not even the planets, and they had accepted their fate with varying degrees of defiance. Very few willingly submitted themselves to destruction, when the will to live was so strong within them. The stars…huge, inconceivable masses of energy and matter that experienced eternity so different from the beings that made their homes on them…
They were galaxies within themselves, entities unborn and undying.
Forever changing.
"No." That was it. Nothing more should be said. "You couldn't. No one could…" but he went on anyway. Just as he had then, he took the time to explain, soothe and attempt to reconcile with himself, and everyone around him. But they couldn't accept. He couldn't.
"Have you so
little faith?" the question hit him like a knife, embedding itself deep within
his heart and twisting at the base. He twisted with the sting, trying to will
himself to not feel a thing. Becoming a corpse.
"…yes…"
Becoming a lie.
"What kind of behavior is that?"
It was a coward's behavior.
A failure.
"I can't trust anyone. Not even myself."
He hadn't wanted to kill anyone. Not a soul…
He wanted…he needed them to be all right. He needed their safety, their comfort, and their joy.
"I see."
But she couldn't.
And with that, the major collected her files, gave a quick look to the nurse, and rose from her chair, fully intending on leaving Trunks. He didn't move to stop her. And so she left with a defiant, glorious look.
He didn't know what to believe.
*****
The tears stung. He didn't like the way they fell down his cheeks and dripped off his face, so he attempted to brush them off, scrubbing furiously at his eyes. His eyes hurt, and he felt swollen, too stretched out and ill suited for the life given him. Each breath suffocated him, closing the passageways too tight for comfort and allowing no room for expansion. His head was too light, and he felt as if the simplest movements would unsteady him and send him to the floor headfirst. And yet…
He couldn't figure out why he was so upset.
The rain didn't help. It darkened the room too much, and left the hospital cold. From the lack of sufficient heating or constant openings of doors to admit or release patients, the interior was hostile, especially to a half-Saiyajin who'd never experienced true cold.
He ached.
Was it self-pity that caused him to feel so…empty? Or was it something else all together?
He was arrogant, like his father, and too willing to place the blame on others when it surely deserved to be set squarely on his shoulders. He was petty, and angered too easily over useless things. How many times had he screamed at his mother for chastising him? For not letting him be who he was? For her, behaving exactly as she felt, and reacting as freely as she did?
It hurt.
But slowly, so slowly, the terrible mourning left him. In its wake, he felt a dull sadness that filled his entire body. It matured, and set itself deep within his bones, and found permanent lodging as easily as if he'd been waiting for that his entire life. He sighed, and settled back into the single, flat pillow he'd been given, and pulled the cover over his head. It didn't help.
*****
tbc…
The next chapter won't be up until I'm done revising this one…I suspect it will take another week? Hard to say.
Note, from Saturday, November 16: …I'm sorry, but due to a number of family situations, I can't really be doing much revising right now. We've got to travel for the next three days to take care of some things…
*Sweatdrops* anyways, the only editing this has gone through is my own, and as the author, I'm bound to miss the little things, and probably some big things as well. I've been trying to work on the character development, the connections and such interesting things, but some irritating person through away the little revisions I was making. *Sigh* that's ultimately the most frustrating thing that could happen, huh?
This is the last time I'm posting an unfinished chapter…
Again, please point out any and all grammatical errors you may find, or things you think are missing pieces (like unrealistic chara's or something). You don't need to be polite; Meghan usually isn't.
Thanks be to you, Trunk's Lover! Hmm, I'm seeing a common trend…*smiles* yep, Trunks is going through quite a bit…sorry to say, but it doesn't get better any time soon. As to how can I make him do that? Uh. *Grins* you can go with a) I'm a seriously demented person or b) I was wacked over the head with an idea I can't ignore… or c) this is only the beginning. Again, I'll be working on this chapter for a while…
Comments, critiques, rants and other such reviews are always welcome.