Warnings: violence, some inappropriate language for people under the age of 13, angst, and confusion. AU, original characters, and one somewhat OoC Trunks.

Disclaimer: Dragon ball Z and all affiliated characters belong to their creator and the companies that own the rights to the anime. This means they池e not mine. I知 making no money on this.

Losing Innocence

by Taes Willett

Book II

Chapter 2

Silence is lost on me now…all I can do is sit and watch, waiting for the stars to fall from their broken hinges. Looking from the earth to the heavens, Trunks felt his eyes lift upward, observing once again that seamless beauty. The darkened sky shone indigo, with tinges of gray and a beautiful navy staining its horizon. The white pinpricks identified as stars had yet to show their bright faces, but it wouldn't be long now, if time held true.

Sometimes waiting is always best . . . but at others, the sheer magnitude of the oncoming events causes all patience to be thrust aside for stronger things.

Somewhere, the night itself is parted, leaving blank space in its stead. Here the silver mist gathered, and beneath its shield he felt his father's protective embrace engulf him as if he were no more than a small child. And for a while, everything was all right…though he cried for what felt like an eternity, his father held him warmly, letting the tears come without complaint. Here, in this mysterious cloud, nothing could hurt him…

A wordless plea for mercy cut through his mind, bringing the peace shattering to the floor. It had been brought on, no doubt, by his guilt-- obsession? --with his acclaimed saving of the universe.

Again and again. For seven days he heard Life's cry for the same boon, to live . . . to flourish.

It cut at the heart and left ribbons in its stead. It left the eyes dark; beyond tears. Here was what being a hero brought . . . nothing but pain and heartache.

It's said that it'd taken seven days to create the universe in all its glory, and with much care and thought. So it had taken him that time with no rest whatsoever to pull it apart. Even something as "shoddily" constructed as that Shadow realm was too complex, too alive to dismantle in less than that.

But it hurt.

It hurt so much he didn't know if he would ever recover; his skin was bleached white, his eyes black. His very chi burned within him like salt thrown in a wound, and even the smallest power usage brought only more pain.

Where was his father when there was so much to learn?

Dead. I killed him.

Where were his friends, when their support was needed?

Slaughtered. I gutted them all.

Where was his mother, when he needed a comforting hand?

Befouled. I left their bodies to rot with the rest.

And where are the innocents, when he needed to know if he'd done right?

Murdered. I left them to suffer for my sins.

Where is the evil that did this?

…

The silence brought no answers.

*****

Nearby, a bed squeaked in protest as its occupant rolled over, and the machinery connected to the man began a whirlwind of protest as various pieces of equipment were strung out of order by this simple movement. Trunks was awake in an instant, though he could barely keep his eyes open. So there he was, lying on a bed of starched whites that had clearly seen better days, if the numerous stains told true, under a low ceiling that'd begun to yellow, despite its age. It wasn't exactly the best place to wake up, and he certainly could live with better surroundings.

The obtrusive noise brought on by the machines persisted, and there didn't seem to be an end to it in sight. Annoyed, and altogether unwilling to go back to sleep, Trunks looked to the mess of wires he seemed to be connected to, and frowned. Though it was no match for the machines he'd seen in the past, it was a far cry above what he'd come to expect in his time. Nonetheless, it wasted resources, and took up too much space. Beep. Not to mention the fact that it was unusually loud.

Sitting up again, Trunks took the entire thing into perspective, trying to gauge what its purpose was, and how he could safely fix it without disturbing that function or shocking himself. Knowing he could survive even the most deadly electricity storm didn't mean he'd be careless enough to provoke further misuse of energy. His objectives in mind, Trunks settled down, and began to work.

Upgrading the machine took some time without the materials, and fixing it to be more efficient took even longer. By the time he finished, he had a small pile of unused parts, a fixed gadget, and a mind that wouldn't stop working on 'electronic mode' as his mom liked to say. This meant he was analyzing everything around him, and coming up with solutions to problems that didn't really fit into the scheme of things while processing what he could keep and what needed to be thrown out. It tended to be more irritating than helpful, especially when he'd rather be doing something else.

Nevertheless, it was welcome relief from the pain nightmares brought on.

Pocketing the scraps for later use, Trunks' stomach growled. Hmm, he thought. Seems that it's about time for breakfast… He stretched, yawned, and slowly pulled himself into a standing position while searching for the proper balance.

Standing took a bit more trial and error than he was willing to admit to, and too much effort to be considered a success. First things first, he decided. Time to see what's wrong… he headed over to the bed, and its occupant, that'd so rudely awoken him some time ago, noticing with distaste that the noise hadn't stopped. As he'd half expected, the cause was simply a restless dreamer moving about in his sleep, and tangling the wires and dripping some sort of solution onto the floor… Gently, he took hold of the man, who he assumed to be a soldier, and pulled him onto his back. This done, he recalled the way he'd been wired, and in this way gauged the order and purpose of each knotted cord.

Settling back into the 'electronic mode,' Trunks leaned against the bed and began the process of remodeling yet another machine.

Halfway through the procedure, the soldier began to gain awareness, groaning in what Trunks assumed to be pain and weariness. Not wanting to further wake the man, and conversely unwilling to give up his objective, Trunks hesitated.

The scientist in him won. Leaving the machine half completed would be an outright invitation to disaster.

Picking up where he left off, Trunks tried not to notice the man beside him. Unfortunately, the man had no qualms with noticing him. "Who th' hell are you?" the sleep befuddled soldier asked, still not quite awake. "And what are ye trying t' do t' my…uh…machine?"

Trunks pulled a piece of scrap from his pocket, and managed to fit it into its counterparts place. Pocketing the part he'd replaced, he avoided the man's gaze. "Trunks Briefs. I'm a scientist." He said simply, and continued to tinker with the machine.

The soldier frowned. "No, you ain't." he declared. "You're a patient, same as me. So what in God's name are you trying to do?" he demanded, sounding more awake now than he had a few minutes ago. Somewhat surprised, Trunks wondered if it was the mention of his being a scientist that had awoken him, or his name.

Deciding to ignore the dispute concerning his knowledge of science, Trunks carefully shortened one wire and lengthened another, teasing the both of them into their proper positions. "You woke half the patients here by mangling your wires. Unfortunately, you seemed to have caused some damage to the interior of the machine, resulting in a small malfunction." The soldier looked puzzled, but no more willing to believe Trunks' claims now than he had before. "Basically, I'm fixing it so this doesn't waste so much energy."

Disbelieving, the man rolled his eyes. "So you're willing to possibly compromise my life for a little wasted energy?" he challenged. "And I'd bet my ass you're the only one woken up around here; half the guys on this ward are deaf and dumb to the world; coma patients!"

Annoyed, Trunks frowned. "So what are you doing here, then?" he wanted to know.

The patient smirked. "No room upstairs. Kicked me down here 'cause of problems with roommates." The look in his eyes dared him to say otherwise.

Trunks wasn't impressed. "I thought this was a military facility." He said simply, fusing two extra wires together while patiently coding the bits of computer fragments. "Aren't soldiers supposed to be more well behaved than everyone else?" he challenged.

This comment was met with outright laughter. "Hell, no. I ain't no soldier!" he grinned. "Do I look it?" Trunks didn't bother to answer. "I'm a mechanic, plain an' simple. Got caught in the crossfire 'tween the rebels and our folk." He winked. "Got me a few battle scars to impress the ladies, thas' all." He drawled, doing his best to imitate a southern accent. "So I know you aren't a sci-in-tist, Mr. Breath," his smile grew, if such a thing were possible. "Because I know all of 'em around here, and not a one is as short and skinny as you."

 "Briefs." Trunks commented, and sighed. "My name is Trunks Briefs."

 "Nice to meet you, then, Mister Trunks Briefs." He half bowed. "Just call me Mack," he grinned again. "Mack McMurphy." Trunks nodded, and continued to tailor a funnel. "Take a fellow's hand when it's offered, Mister Briefs," he suggested, a bit of annoyance creeping into the good humor.

Hesitating, Trunks turned, taking Mack's hand in a firm handshake, trying not to notice the surprise he saw in the man's face. Had he changed so much? What about him made others stare so?

 "Hot damn, Trunks," Mack breathed. "What in all the hells happened to you?" he laughed shakily, taken aback. "And I thought my skin was weird!" he grinned again, easily finding his cool. Trunks blinked at the reference, and glanced briefly at McMurphy's hand again, noticing with some unease that it was red and scarred as if he'd thrust it into the fire.

Trunks shrugged. "I fell." He said simply, and went back to his work.

He could practically feel McMurphy rolling his eyes. "And?" he prompted.

Pretending to ignore the question, Trunks continued his task, bending the wires in a spiral design as he considered reworking the entire electrical system. The funnel was nearly complete, so his mission would be done with in a short amount of time.

Mack sighed in frustration, sensing he wasn't going to get much of an answer from this sort of chap. "So, Mister Briefs," he began, an edge of laughter creeping into his voice. "What are you doing in the coma ward?"

 "Uh," Trunks' hands paused for a moment, leaving the room noticeably quieter. He winced. Now how's that for a brilliant response? He thought glumly.

Mack only laughed. "So, did ya want some stimulating company?" he smirked, and nodded self-righteously. "The nurse on this ward is an awfully sweet little thing, ain't she?"

Trunks sighed, trying desperately not to notice McMurphy's comments. "So how'd you end up in the 'crossfire,' being a mechanic?" he asked quietly, attempting to shove the conversation in the opposite direction.

Now it was McMurphy's time to sigh. "Tryin' to play hero, that's all," he murmured, looking at his hands. Shrugging good naturedly, he tried to resume his easy-going attitude. "Was trying to help one of our fighters make a quick take off and nail them suckers where it hurts." He laughed ruefully. "All I got for my trouble was a blown up fighter with one dead as a door-knob pilot and a pair of crippled hands." He raised an eyebrow cynically. "How's that for destiny? I try to do some good, for once in my life, and wind up a cripple because of it."

He grinned, a little crestfallen. "Fate's one mother fuckin' son of a bitch, ain't she?" rubbing his claw-like hands together, he attempted to move his fingers with little true success. "So, whenever I heal up, I won't be worth shit to anybody. What good's a mechanic without his hands?" he wondered, pained by the thought. "It's 'g'bye, Mack; nice knowin' ya. Have a nice life!' with a measly four hundred dollars compensation to get me back on my feet and a sentimental letter of apology." He sighed, pulling his hands into fists. "An' straight into the life of a cripple."

Trunks' hands trembled with annoyance and sympathy as he listened to the man's story, and after it seemed he didn't have much else to say, he put the wires down and looked straight at McMurphy. "I'm sorry your hands were burned," he began, keeping his voice smooth and face blank. "But you've no idea what it's like to be a cripple." Images of Gohan flashed through his mind. It was those memories of his mentor, struggling to survive in a battle where he was sorely outclassed and outnumbered, that kept him fighting, hoping beyond reason.

 "My teacher, mentor, really, lost his arm in battle. To protect me," he sighed, remembering the incident well. "It was…my first, really. I was useless, ill prepared, and simply a weakness to him…but I tried. Gohan brought me home after giving me his only chance of survival…he managed to make it the entire way before collapsing at my mother's doorstep." Annoyed at the amount of emotion still tied to that ancient memory, he pressed on, trying to ignore the pain he felt at Gohan's loss. "He continued to teach me, without complaint. He adjusted; learned to fend off more than one person better than anybody with less." Looking past McMurphy and into the past, he saw his friend as he remembered him best. "He made one hell of a difference. So don't. Tell. Me." His voice shook and eyes flashed with suppressed pain and anger. "That a cripple can't do a damn thing."

Mack stared, watching the boy with utter surprise and something resembling respect. For that moment, the boy's eyes were completely still, the stars there were as unmoving, unchanging as the ones that hung in the night sky seemed to be. Perfect balance. His eyes were windows into a world where truth meant everything, and where hope could always survive.

 "You only become 'useless' when you stop trying." He murmured, and turned away. The next few minutes were spent in silence as Trunks completed the adjustments in the machine. McMurphy contemplated what the kid had said, mulling over his story as a miser counts his gold. Could one man really make a difference?

Could one man overcome such an obstacle?

Listening to Trunks, and watching him work, Mack believed that yes, one man could make a difference.

And yes; he could become something more.

If he tried.

As Trunks began to leave, finished with his work, Mack found his voice, and spoke. "Thank you," he murmured. "And don't sleep too long, okay?"

Trunks smiled, and nodded.

*****

For the next two weeks, Trunks wandered in and out of patients' rooms in search of machines to fix. He didn't try so much to be silent and unnoticed after the first few, noticing that soldiers of war tended to be on high alert, and with as much energy as he had now, it would be useless to waste it on silencing his movements when his body was in need of repair. So he endured their stares, their questions, and ultimately, their pity, completely unaware of the respect he earned from simply existing on a 'normal' level. He pushed past his weaknesses in order to do good, not indulging in pain or fear as a weaker person might.

Despite his age, he was swiftly becoming one of the most respectable men in the hospital.

So he grew accustomed to concentrating on two things; fixing the machines, and talking to the people they belonged to. More often than not, they were more than willing to confess their ineptitude, or even the crimes they'd committed. What further amazed him was their trust in him, of all people, to lead them justly, as a comrade, and not an inferior.

So he listened.

And he learned.

What they told him was more than a story; more often than not, it was their lives they put on the line, but if they were waiting for counsel or sympathy, he could never quite be sure. He listened to the stories they told him telling how they'd gotten here, and where they intended to go after they were cleared, and he learned that the majority here would stay for quite some time, and those that did leave were one of two varieties.

They were dead, or they were crippled.

Like Mack.

It seemed these Rebels didn't believe in fighting fair, or leaving a man able to recover. The men here were very rarely older than thirty, and some were as young as he. They came from all sorts of families, with backgrounds so different from one another's it seemed impossible for them to be united under anything. Sharing only one thing in common, the men were all integrated soldiers and were fighting a war against the Rebels to keep the peace and protect their country. Some, like Mack, weren't soldiers that fought, with all sorts of jobs Trunks could never keep in his head.

They were proud, but their confidence was dying.

Trunks could remember what that felt like, and so he pushed aside his emotions, and turned to them, tying to help where he could and direct their attention inward. Maybe it wasn't a battle he could win, but it was something he'd damn well try.

The machines were by far the easiest part of his visits, as they required nothing more than a few touchups, and an hour's worth of repair. The soldiers were often less willing to cooperate, shouting at him for a good long while before even letting him get a chance to speak. He was a child, they'd say, barely fit for learning about the world, and not meant to change it. Especially not like this, an older gentleman would shout. He was, to them, a young upstart that would doom the world to suffering and misery. For the most part, Trunks tried not to let the people like that get to him.

And then, wonder of wonders, they'd stop, and wait for him to speak, to tell them that no, they were wrong. He could change things for the better, and so could they. Their furious, ruddy faces would return to a healthier, less stressed color, and their pallor would recede. None would admit outright that they'd even considered his words, but they listened.

And at the time, that's all Trunks could ask.

Then there were those who would accept what he said without ever explaining himself. These 'instant followers' were made of weaker material than the copper he molded, and far less easily put into design. It frustrated him immensely, to be forced to make all the decisions, and tell them where they belonged time and again. They had no vision, and sought only to do the simplest, least difficult things they could. But they believed, and Trunks had to restrain himself and not throttle their too-agreeable necks.

With these soldiers, he had to readjust their sense of self, and quite forcibly show them that yes, they were worth something. More often than not, this wasn't what they wanted, and he had to fight to get them to accept it. He refused to tell them word for word, but suggestions were not beneath him.

These soldiers, these young men, would look at him with imploring eyes, shining like the stars to be 'so blessed' by his presence. They'd look up in awe and wonder, unable to contemplate the miracle that had come before them. More than anything, it made Trunks uneasy, upset and forlorn. No one…not these young people, not anyone…should trust him so.

Betrayal would ultimately come to pass.

Of course, there were others who fit into neither of these extremes, and sometimes he'd find himself talking to the nurses about similar things. They, too, wanted a savior, it seemed. They wanted a leader.

Willingly or not, Trunks would become this for them.

All without knowing even the smallest details about their war. He felt…awful. Like a liar, a con man that'd cheated these people out of something truly wonderful and given them some false hope to wonder at, without ever considering their lives…

At the end of his original sojourn, with no more machines to fix besides the less accessible wiring between the walls, Trunks resumed his first route, dropping by once again to check up on the machines and test their fluency. Naturally, the patients therein would take this time to reinforce their goals, and he'd learn, purely out of conversational curiosity, what they'd been doing since he last saw them. They talk, and he'd find himself suggesting little things to help their plan work out better, and encourage them to continue their work.

Their injuries healed, and with some prodding from the demi-Saiyajin, they'd carefully begin to work back up to the level of precision they'd been at before whatever accident they'd encountered.

Pulling his hand across the wall with some small amount of boredom, Trunks wondered if he should make a third round of check ups and see how everyone was doing now. Sighing, more than a little tired of that idea, he decided that three weeks of pep talking was more than enough. It was time to find something else to do.

So, he thought, what else is there to do in a hospital? If I try to train, I'll have a dozen orderlies breathing down my neck…if I can manage to train at all. Once more, he sighed. There didn't seem to be much more to do, especially when considering the number of nurses around, all of whom seemed more interested in keeping him 'healthy' than interested. Maybe this was what his mother meant when she mentioned the lack of 'normal' people's ability to understand the Saiyajin need to get stronger.  And that meant training.

Therefore, he was left to wandering the halls whenever he could sneak out, and cheering people up when he needed a good confidence booster himself.

But there wasn't anyone to do it.

And the dreams…

They insisted that he was horrible, monstrous, and altogether evil. What could he say to that? 'I'm sorry,' didn't seem to cut it, and guilt didn't do a damn thing. There wasn't anyone…no one but him…to say anything, and he…

Me?

I'm not strong enough.

Frustrated, Trunks wondered how many times a man could sigh before fainting on account of lack of oxygen. The though amused him for some fraction of a moment, and for that, he smiled. He was tired, and the action seemed to stress his muscles too much, but it felt good to smile, to be happy. Marveling at the feeling, he shook his head, in awe of how simple pleasures could make life feel so…worthwhile.

It was kinda nice.

He stopped at the end of the hallway, noting with blank disinterest that he'd come this way before, and that the only door around was barred, of all things. Not quite wanting to give up on his adventure just yet, he looked around, seeking out the said door. As he half expected, it was smaller than the others, and out of the way, without the little plastic rectangle designating its purpose.

Common sense told him it was probably a storage closet, or an old treatment room, but instinct led him to believe otherwise. There was something strange about this…this tall, skinny door that someone would like him to believe led nowhere. The paint on its front was peeling, and the floor beside it was smudged with imprints made from shoes and small machines, dirt and grime. For something supposedly unused, the markings seemed a little too…fresh. Not when everything else in the hospital was kept as neat as possible, despite the drastic changes in weather and yellowing ceilings.

No, something wasn't right here.

Going with instinct, Trunks walked slowly across the hall and touched the doorknob. He sensed the heat behind it first; the electronic gizmo that told him someone had gone through an awful lot of work to keep a storage closet unused. There were more traps, keyholes, really, all along the frame as well as a simple lock.

Strange…

Over the past few weeks, he'd assembled a sizeable collection of odds and ends from the machines, pocketing the spare parts for later use and marking his passing with more scrap. There wasn't anyplace to keep it, naturally, in a hospital where room was scarce and personal belongings were few in number. So he'd found an empty capsule that'd somehow survived his kamikaze attack, and dumped the contents in there.

It'd certainly been interesting, to say the least, trying to explain to Mack, and even worse, the lady in charge of the ward, what the noise was coming from.

Fortunately or not, he kept the thing with him, and easily retrieved a number of metal wires strong enough to get the job done, and set to work. Picking locks certainly hadn't been one of the things his mother wanted him to know, but it hadn't been ruled out of her 'useful information' list quite yet, so she'd taught him the most primitive techniques concerning your basic lock-and-key formation, and left him to figure out the electronically engineered devices, leaving a few around the house to practice on.

So after a few short minutes, he had the first of the locks done with, and in the space of an hour, managed to safely disarm the other 'traps.' Smiling to himself at a job well done, Trunks walked through the portal only to find an ill lit staircase leading to an even darker space below. Not wanting to give himself away quite yet, Trunks forego the use of a small chi ball to illuminate the path, and leaned heavily on the railing to keep from falling.

The long, narrow staircase led unsurprisingly to yet another door, but this one was far less heavily guarded, and a bit larger, strangely enough. Curious, and more than a little concerned, Trunks opened the door.

*****

tbc…

The next part will be up soon, with luck.

Thanks be to Samantha for your encouraging response! There's not really much I can say to that, but thank you for saying something. You may have gathered this, but all authors love feedback. How can you improve if you don't know what's wrong, or what people like? I hope I continue to be up to your expectations for character building, and the over all mood of the anime.

Hmm. Just a guess, but I'd say you like Trunks. *Grins* and yep, he's probably like you. You seem nice, and not afraid of sharing your opinion.

Um. I'll take the "and you write alot" (Grammar note: there's two words in a lot. Just a nice thing to know) as a compliment.

Thank you to Jamie for the interesting insight! It's funny that you should say that the new world reminds you of GW, because that's partially what it's based on (GW is quite possibly one of the best anime series I've seen wonderful art, detailed, realistic characters, cool plot, and completely awe inspiring sub plots). I tend to write about what I'm familiar with, so GW naturally came into play. It's cool that somebody noticed.

Depressing is a good thing, right? *Wonders* eh, or not…

Point? *Smiles* that same question could be asked about the entire story: what is the point? The 'More or less' answer: to have Trunks grow into a mature young man with realistic goals, and understand that he's not the only one carrying the weight of the universe.

In response to gigi:

Thank you for sharing your opinion. I always value a new perspective, although I must admit, I've honestly no idea where you're coming from. Though I've nothing against the concept, this story has nothing to do with YAOI. I'd like to point out that "yaoi" is not a word; it's an acronym which stands for "yama nashi, ochi nashi, imi nashi." This translates to "No peak, no point, no meaning." In Japan, this phrase is used to describe the process of getting any two characters together in a sexual manner. These characters aren't exclusively male, per se, but they can be. In America, PWP (plot? What plot?) would be the equivalence. In any case, 'yaoi' in America has come to mean sexual relations between two (or more, I suppose…) guys. Shonen ai is the term most Americans use to express less explicit relationships where the two boys (usually they're young) hold hands, possibly kiss, and display fluff and nothing else. The translation is more along the lines of 'boy's love' which suggests a more innocent relationship.

I've not intentionally put any shonen ai hints in the chapters, so as I said, I've no idea where you're coming from. There obviously aren't any YAOI scenes, since there aren't any sex scenes within the context.

In my brother's words: "If you're reading YAOI into the story, that's your problem."

If you feel that one particular section suggests a sexual relationship, feel free to point it out, and I'll revise it. This is NOT A ROMANCE FIC, so I don't want to imply anything. I'm sorry for those of you who want it to be, but I've no interest whatsoever in writing romance stories as of now.

If you have any questions, comments, or concerns, contact me.

Reviews, critiques, and long rants are always appreciated.