Disclaimer: Dragon Ball Z and all related characters are copy right of their respected owners. This means I don't own them, never will own them, and a few other minor details like that. I'm making no profit off this whatsoever. The original characters, the content, and the overall idea, however, are all of my creation.
Warnings: violence (I think…). Some curse words. Small bits of angst, and a hefty bit of foreshadowing. NO ROMANCE. Thank you.
Chapter 3
The onslaught assaulting his ears seemed unbelievable. One moment, he was walking down a flight of stairs, clinging to a rail so fragile he thought it might break. And the next? He opened a door, only to be greeted by chaos so awesomely loud he could barely see. Having only shared the company of one or two sick men at a time, Trunks was altogether unprepared for this tumult, with machines going about their business without a care in the world, and men shouting orders, suggestions or lewd jokes over the noise.
A Saiyajin, even under the worst circumstances, has better senses than your average human, hearing not being the least of them. Though his hearing wasn't quite up to Piccolo's standards, he could pick up much of the interference far better than anyone else might.
Trunks was in agony. The bright light flooded his eyes with the most irritating persistency he'd seen in a long while, seeming much more painful and potent than one of Gohan's Kamehameha waves, and with a much longer lifespan. On top of the general hubbub below, this place was pure misery.
What the hell is this place? He wondered, trying to keep his feet. Ugh. I think I'm going to die… he moaned silently, wishing at that instant that he'd not been blessed with the unique abilities he possessed.
Forcing his eyes to adjust took more than a little doing, and even then, his senses were so accustomed to the relative silence of the hospital he couldn't process much more than the obvious. He observed the entire scene from a platform a good distance from the ground, above the majority of the groundwork, but below several 'decks' containing more of the same. All around him, people went about their business, working on machines just barely taller than the people maintaining them. The entire atmosphere stank of fuel, sweat and dirt; the only things even remotely clean were the pieces the men and women worked on. The machines, shaped to resemble the human figure, were like suits of armor from the Samurai ages, yet more streamlined and precise than a single man could ever be, if the interior said anything about its performance.
Intrigued, Trunks drew closer, walking down a flight of stairs and sidestepping various pieces of equipment used in the repair of these ingenious suits. The exterior seemed to be designed for multi purposes, with hand-to-hand combat being one of the top priorities in some, speed for others, and agility for all. As a scientist, Trunks could see little point in having an aesthetically pleasing physique for a weapon of mass destruction, but when men piloted such things, such a design would be almost necessary if he wanted to inspire great things.
The machines were sexless, oddly enough, not strictly male or female, but they varied in height as people did, seemingly designed for one person and one person alone. This certainly wasn't something you could steal successfully without knowing a thing or two about the person inside.
If he recalled correctly, and these were the fabled 'suits' his fellow patients talked about, the Rebels did steal these magnificent things, and they used them successfully, to greater or lesser degrees. 'They worked with one another, the way we can't,' Mack would say, using their fewer numbers to a greater extent than the Allies could, attacking their flanks and disarming their soldiers whenever they could. Considering their limited supplies and funds, they did quite an alarming bit of sabotage.
"Hey, watch it! I'm trying to move, here!" someone shouted, coming very close to popping his eardrums. Trunks winced, scanning the pieces of machinery as he took in the sight. The person, a girl, he thought, fidgeted impatiently behind him, not noticing or not caring about his interest. "Hello!" she griped, fixing her grip on what he assumed was a fairly large piece of equipment. Naturally, he couldn't be for certain, as she was a few feet behind him, but he could guess.
"Wow," he breathed. Interest lit his eyes, and unknowingly he began to verbally analyze what he saw before him, guessing at the mechanical systems within the suits and theorizing what their purposes were. He hadn't seen something this unique in ages, barring the androids. The androids' interiors were certainly complex, but he found them to be more demented, scary as hell things that shouldn't hold one's interest for long. That it took three knowledgeable geniuses to fix one minor systems error only furthered his belief that one would have to be criminally insane to come up with something that complicated.
The girl laughed, but her laughter was short lived, and it still carried a note of irritation. "You new to the team?" she wondered, still amused. "I couldn't understand a word of that crap you just said, an' I been workin' here for years!" she laughed again, this time with more than a bit of scorn. "Yeah, it's big and amazing and all, but listen, kid, get out o' my way before I hit you over the head with my leg!"
Trunks grinned sheepishly, apologizing as he moved aside. The girl was tall, skinny and muscular enough to handle what was given her, and interestingly enough, they'd given her a leg, and not some box of tools as he'd first suspected. Her black hair was tied neatly out of the way with a red bandanna, but the soot, oil streaks and other smudges associated with mechanical repair did nothing to hide her stunning complexion. With skin the color of bronze highlighted with molten honey, she seemed to glow with a light of her own. In comparison, her features were bland and ill suited. Her black eyes narrowed at the sight of him, and she frowned, trying to gauge his purpose here.
"Who the hell are you?" she demanded. "You're wearin' hospital clothes, mister, and that mean you sure as hell don't belong here!" shifting the leg to a more comfortable position, she glared mightily at him, without the slightest trace of sympathy or trust. For once, Trunks found it exhilarating to be doubted, and not followed blindly as if he were some sort of godsend. He smiled. "What the hell happened to you, how did you get in here, and what in God's name are you trying to do!" the string of questions were more orders than anything.
"Uh," he started. Great. Yet another brilliant response…
"Don't give me none of that!"
Opening his mouth to try again, Trunks wondered vaguely what he should say, and what she expected. As he processed her questions, he shifted uneasily, wishing she'd get on with her business and leave him alone. "My name is Trunks." He began, wishing he'd taken the time to get a drink of water.
Taking one menacing step closer, she seemed to forget her heavy burden in sight of a new conquest. "Listen, buddy, I got a job to do, and you're in my way. As far as I'm concerned, you're a spy, and that means I skewer you with this here leg and hang you up from the closest railing by your own entrails!" She looked mad enough to spew fire, and annoyed enough to follow through with any threats she gave.
"I came down the stairs--"
"Which stairs?" she shouted, shaking a stray piece of hair from her face. Somehow it'd escaped the bandanna, despite the odds.
"Uh, those stairs." He grimaced, wishing she weren't quite so authoritative and loud. It was bad enough he had to endure this environment, but with the added bonus of someone screaming at him, it was nearly unbearable. "The door was unlocked, and I--"
She seemed to grow in size as she edged closer, forcing Trunks to retreat or be further deafened. "So you decided to do some exploring, huh hot shot?"
Somewhere below him, a group of people laughed, settling around a single machine that seemed half finished and in ill repair. They'd stopped working all of a sudden, as if they'd just realized something of great importance. By their attitudes, they were close friends all, joking along with one another as they got their work done, easily trading one job for another with the skill and patience of pros. "Hey, Mari! Get your ass down here and leave the kid alone!" one called, doubtless amused at her antics.
Mari fumed. "I'm busy, Carlos!" she called, oblivious to their laughter.
Rolling his eyes, Carlos dropped his pliers and pulled off his gloves, making his way towards the pair at a slow, unhurried pace. He seemed more than willing to have them wait, but Mari apparently had other plans. Ready to knock him into the nearest boiler, she made as if to swing the heavy leg she carried just as Carlos entered the scene.
"Woah there little pony," he cautioned, grinning from ear to ear. "If you don't watch it, someone's gonna get hurt!" he was a big man, tall, wide and muscular, with the burly arms of a blacksmith and a bushy mustache to match. His dark eyes twinkled with amusement as he took in the sight, and though his skin mirrored Mari's, it seemed more an effect of prolonged exposure to open flame than anything else. He was a weathered man, probably younger than he looked, and wrinkled deeply. He winked. "Probably me, and you know how possessive I am about my hide," looking over his shoulder, he tipped his hat to their friends and cohorts in crime, oblivious to Mari's petrifying glare.
On her part, Mari was more than a little miffed. "He's a spy!" she accused, paying no attention to the stares they were attracting, or not caring in the least if she did notice.
Carlos looked dubious. "And where do you get off saying that? He's wearing our hospital clothes, girl!" he laughed, looking from Mari to Trunks to the group waiting in amusement below them, more than satisfied with that answer.
"So what! He ain't supposed to be down here!" she insisted, stomping her foot on the wire ground that upheld them. Trunks looked uneasy, wondering how he'd gotten into this mess to begin with.
"Isn't. 'Ain't' isn't a word, Mari," Carlos grinned teasingly, pulling her hair gently. "Hmm. If that's such a problem, guess we should go get one of our superiors, huh? They'd definitely know how to--"
"And what might be the problem?" someone asked from behind. Knowing his luck, Trunks was willing to bet it was some authoritative, godlike figure here to doom him an eternity in the hospital ward. He sighed, frustrated. All this, for a little bored exploration?
Carlos paled somewhat, being in the position to see exactly who addressed them. He smiled easily, nonetheless, willingly going along with the flow of events. Before he could open his mouth, sharp-tongued Mari began to relate the events. "He's a spy." She said, quite simply, jerking her thumb in Trunks' direction. "He claims to be from the hospital ward, but I know better! Nobody in the damn world leaves that door unlocked, and he says he just walked on through--" she probably would have carried on for some time, but Trunks blocked her out long before she got to the point, and made his way to the nearest suit.
He'd been observing them from afar for a little while now, but it was one thing to see it, and another to see how everything was put together. He smiled in spite of himself, and stooped low to pick up a scrap of wire. Circling the suit, he looked at the generic design for a few moments, searching for anything that might be familiar or need improving. He found quite a few similarities in structure between this and parts of the androids basic makeup, but upon closer inspection, it was much simpler than he'd been led to believe. Sighing in relief, he noted the circuits that'd been shorted, and the microchips embedded in the thick, metallic armor. Interested, he leaned closer, absently repairing the outs with his left hand while examining the make of the chips.
They were machine made, which allowed more room for mistakes and mass-produced errors than anything he or his mother would ever design. In a chip made by another machine programmed specifically to make one design, the scientist gave up the possibility of redoing the entire thing, improving from the first to the next. Because human error was such a major contribution to the chips ultimate performance, it had to be checked over again and again, with careful attention to detail each time. While time consuming, this allowed for better results, and far less critical inaccuracies than other machines.
Granted, he'd only seen this method between himself and his mother, but it seemed a far more precise way of producing machines. This held true unless, of course, you needed lots of them, and fast. He suspected this was the main reason for the faulty production, and sighed. Every machine produced had the exact same error, then…leaving them open and vulnerable in a place where they ought to pay closest attention.
This little chip, centered in the human equivalence of the stomach, was responsible for the machine's ability to promote defense. Without it, a miniature force field couldn't be produced, and no long distance radio waves would be accepted. In an army, communication should be the most important thing, Trunks reasoned, but they don't seem to care-- or maybe they don't notice --the significance of their mistake…why is that?
The force field generated behind the suit would be significantly weaker than the front, and if the circuitry told him anything, there would be gaping holes between the suit's joints, especially the arms. Undoubtedly the pilot was probably expected to rely more on offensive tactics than defensive, but without a weapon, the pilot would be near helpless inside, and the level of energy leaking through to the pilot would be near catastrophic if they were hit too many times.
Feeling a bit sick at what kind of injuries would result, Trunks backed away, examining the reaction time and reflexes, trying to shove the images provoked out of his mind. Here, too, there were flaws, but these were minor in comparison. Whoever designed the suits must have been dominantly left handed, for the difference between the right and left limbs was amazingly apparent. Attacking from the right would leave the unfortunate pilot at a disadvantage, being unable to block at the expected rate…especially if that pilot were primarily accustomed to relying on that hand.
There were, however, quite a few amazing technologies bound together in this one machine, and despite the flaws, he couldn't get over how intricate, how complex the entire suit was. Whoever had designed these suits wasn't far behind Dr. Gero… fortunately or not, these suits had no will power of their own, nor were they built off living tissue.
This will definitely be more interesting than fixing the machines upstairs…
"Hey! What are you doing?" Mari shouted, finally cutting through his concentration. "I've been trying to get your attention for three minutes!" she complained, shaking the leg at him. Trunks blinked, about to reply when two notably larger men took him by the arms, lifting him forcibly up the stairs.
The superior seemed moderately concerned, while the technicians were livid, practically pulling his arms out as they carried him. Fighting the urge to panic, Trunks quelled his need to strike out at his oppressors, knowing instinctively that his energy still wasn't quite as high as it could be.
Within a few minutes, he was back up the narrow flight of stairs and shoved in a room he'd known to be empty this entire trip. About ready to correct them on their mistake, his room was down the hall, three doors to the left, Trunks wisely held his tongue as everyone involved filed in.
He collapsed on the bed like a broken doll, unable to move after putting so much energy into remaining calm and getting to the room to begin with. Trunks sighed, and closed his eyes, not ready to be quizzed over his information and taxed beyond reason by pointless questions.
"Trunks Briefs, you say your name is?" the superior asked gently, his voice low and authoritative even now. How he managed to be heard over the din below, Trunks wasn't sure; he couldn't imagine the man speaking above that, much less shouting. Trunks nodded. "I see. You know, Trunks, we haven't been able to locate any files on you, none in the least. Not even," he leaned closer. "a report on you, or your squadron, flying over to the area we picked you up in." he cleared his throat. "What's to make us believe Mari's claims? Who's to say you aren't a spy?"
Trunks shrugged. "I'm not a spy." He sighed, wishing he could sit up, or even open his eyes. "I didn't mean to come here…I fell…"
The superior nodded. Trunks stifled the urge to groan; he was back to hearing motions again. "And where did you fall from, Mister Briefs?" he inquired.
Frowning, Trunks wondered about that. "The sky." He suggested. "I don't remember, all right? The only thing I can recall about this whole mess is falling." He fumed, and somehow pooled enough energy together to sit up and meet the commander's gaze. "I don't know a damn thing about this war, much less why I'm here. You can fucking kill me for all I care." Pain flashed across his face, dulling his eyes. Within them, the stars seemed to hold their breath. "I deserve to die anyway."
It was a coward's behavior he exhibited today, but he couldn't find it in him to care. No one he cared about was here to witness it. Not Goku. Not his mother.
Not Vegeta.
Certainly not them. You killed them, remember?
Oh, shut up…
"What were you trying to do to McCoy's suit?"
Trunks stared. "Wha?" no trace of recognition could be found. "What's a suit?"
Mari snorted. "The thing you were trying to sabotage, you nut case!" she looked quite willing to rant for some time, but fortunately or not, Carlos and their superior stopped her from going on.
Trunks lifted an eyebrow. "Oh." He said simply. "That thing."
When it became apparent he didn't know anything else, the attention shifted to Mari and Carlos, leaving Trunks to sit and stare at that Kami forsaken ceiling yet again. He was really starting to hate that thing.
Mulling over the design in his head, Trunks leaned over and snatched a pad of paper and pencil from the dresser, intent on fixing the mistakes he'd seen before he forgot. Hopefully, someone would take interest in them and start to correct it before too many more casualties were reached.
Half listening to the conversations going on around him, Trunks began to detail the outline of the 'heart,' so to speak, and highlighted the areas that could use improvement. Brainstorming a few ways to correct these errors, Trunks mentally started calculating the equations the system would function around, wondering if the reaction time was a symptom of the heart's ineptitude or if it was an altogether unrelated mistake. Murmuring quietly to himself, he related a few of the theories his mother worked around whenever she was stumped, hoping to find a solution in something they'd rectified long ago.
Frowning, Trunks didn't notice that the conversations around him had ceased, and that all eyes were on him. Pursing his lips, he went through the equations the time machine was based on, wondering if the 'fabric' between realities was anything like the layers in the world, and how this could be manipulated to create a shield that could, quite possibly, keep the suit safely out of reach. Deciding that would lead to a few too many health problems, Trunks dropped the idea, and started brainstorming possibilities once again.
A few minutes into this, he finally realized the movement around him had stopped, and looked up. Something akin to fear lingered in their eyes, and not the least of their emotions was precisely that, but there was amazement, respect, and interest to go along with it.
Trunks fidgeted. "What?" he asked.
Carlos smiled. "Nothing, kid. Don't worry about it." His smile stretched into a grin as he looked at Mari, and then at the commander. "So, you can't remember squat about anything 'cept Science, huh?" he laughed. "Well, that suits me just fine, kid."
Trunks blinked, and glanced uneasily from one person to the next. "I'm not a spy." He insisted.
The superior chuckled. "Indeed, what kind of spy would so freely give away invaluable information like that?" he wondered. "If, that is, it's correct."
Mari nodded, amazement shining clearly in her black eyes. "No shit, Sherlock." She shrugged. "Leave me outta this. I got work to do." She held up her hands in defeat and looked at the commander. "Sir?" he nodded. She grinned, and made her way out of the room.
Trunks sighed, and wished he had the privilege of leaving.
Fortunately or not, he had quite a bit of questioning to put up with before that could happen. Woe is the life of a genius, as Bulma would say, and even more woe upon ye who interrupt a genius at work.
*****
For the next few days, he spent the majority of his time in bed, sketching ideas and possible solutions on his pad of notebook paper, intent on keeping detailed outlines of any and all ideas he came up with. The second and third day he came up with reasons for why all the concepts he'd been toying with wouldn't work, and possible corrections to those problems if he felt it had some amount of merit. Someone would wander into his new room to 'check' on him every hour or so, and see if he needed anything. Mostly they were there to bother him, as he saw it, and interrupt his chain of thoughts.
Several times a scientist from downstairs would attempt to take his notebook away and give him another to work on, but being a child of war and destruction, Trunks was well accustomed to writing small and taking advantage of every available asset. So far, this notebook could last him several weeks, if not months. "Besides," he'd say, "I like to go back over what I've already come up with every once in a while and make some modifications," he would grin, "to, you know, make sure everything's up to the same standards."
The response was more often than not a muttered sentence of apology and a few annoyed grunts.
That never ceased to amuse Trunks.
After a few days of being confined to his bed, the kid was getting tired of interruptions, and threatened the first person to open his door with a very slow, painful death. "Starting with the fingers," he muttered.
Amused laughter met that remark. He looked up in surprise; only to find that his visitor today was the level headed brother of Mari's, Carlos. "You do that, little guy," he could practically sense the man's grin. "I've been sent to 'check up' on you and attempt to part you from that 'revolutionizing' notebook of yours. You done yet?"
Trunks smiled, and shook his head. "No."
He looked up at Carlos' smiling face, taking in the dirt-smudged face and deeply wrinkled lines etched within from long years of suffering, pain and determination. There were laugh lines all across his face, lining his features with a sense of hope. Here was a remarkable man, if he'd ever met one. Something about him reminded Trunks of Gohan, with all his traits, right down to the distinctive hunger for knowledge, and heart of gold. He was the older brother Trunks had never had, and always wished for.
"Well then, little guy, guess that means I ought to be goin', and leave you to your work." He winked. "Don't wanna be murdered horribly after all that's goin' on." With that, he turned to leave. "Take care of yourself, now,"
Trunks hesitated. "Wait," he called, just as the door clicked into place. He sighed, and murmured quietly to himself. I just wanna know…how's life going? He smiled wearily, and leaned back against the wall.
Guess I won't know until I get back into it…
*****
Knowing his lineage, and how stubborn both his mother and father could be, Trunks eventually shoved aside his patience and thought for detail, and left the brainstorming for another day, intent on doing something before his mind exploded. He hadn't done that many calculations since he graduated his mother's 'science and math course for the growing mind.' Mostly that 'course' included everything from obscure divisions of calculus to the very basic math skills, all incorporated in such a way that even a genius would have to think about what he or she did.
When she wanted to, Bulma could make everything difficult, and when teaching her son about the wide world of science, that's precisely what she did.
They'd never had enough supplies for true 'trial and error' but upon occasion they'd have scrap metals and wiring enough to create the most basic devices to demonstrate such-and-such laws without interference. Later, they'd transform those into more complicated things, and eventually, although he didn't know it at the time, the basics for his mother's beloved time traveling machine.
Nothing was ever wasted, least of all the opportunity to live and grow from any experience.
A guard of sorts had been posted at the door leading to the building area, Trunks noted, and probably one before the main entrance as well. He grinned to himself. Suppose they didn't want any more surprise inspections from hospital patients…
"Excuse me," he hailed the guard. "I'd like to test a few of these designs, if you don't mind, and get a head start on--"
"Name, sir?" the guard nearly shouted. Trunks winced, and wondered why young military people felt the need to yell like that.
Amused, but a bit annoyed at the ringing in his ears, he nodded. "Trunks Briefs."
"The nature of your visit, sir?"
"Uh, working on a few experimental designs."
The guard withdrew some sort of hand held computer, and easily typed in a few codes. "One moment." A few minutes later, the guard nodded, pressed a few more buttons, and a small card was printed, with Trunks' photo, name, and 'rank.' He was amused to find there was a time limit to this card's potency, and a few restrictions noted. "You have until 1900, sir."
"Thank you…I think…"
"I'm required to point out to you, sir, that you're to remain in quadrant 16A and keep to the restricted area. No items being tested upon are to leave the RA," Trunks assumed that was the term for 'restricted area,' and nodded, "and no outside tools are to be come into the RA. You will be searched going into and coming out of the area, so I advise you leave any and all weapons you might have upon your person behind. With all due respect, sir, that includes your notebook, sir."
"Uh." Trunks replied, a bit overwhelmed by the strict, almost monotone way the soldier relayed all this information. Excluding the bit about the notebook, the man sounded almost exactly like one of the machines his Grandfather had around Capsule Corps. "Sure. Can you hold on to it for me?"
The question was barely out of his mouth when the soldier made his response. "No, sir! All weapons, tools and other things of possible destructive nature are to be left in the neutral zone, sir!" he hesitated. "Again, with all due respect, sir, your notebook could be taken, sir. I suggest you leave it behind, sir."
Trunks nodded dazedly, and wondered at the excessive 'sir-ing' the soldier exhibited. Reflecting on that, Trunks smiled, remembering that most warriors he'd met were always a bit wary of scientific people like his mother and naturally himself. "Thank you for the advice," he murmured, and tucked the notebook in what all the nurses referred to as the status box outside his door, behind the doctor's notes and charts 'for his health.' Knowing that only the nurses and doctors leafed through it, and then only when they needed to see him as a patient, he felt safe enough leaving it there.
The guard let him through without another word, aside from a quiet, "Good luck, sir," and Trunks was left to his thoughts as he traveled down the stairway yet again. This time, however, it was better lit, and as he suspected, there was another guard bellow. She was far less helpful than the one upstairs, however, and a bit ill tempered at being left 'in the dark, doing useless guard duty.'
Downstairs, things were pretty much the way he remembered them, loud, bright, and an intolerable mess of dirt, grime and machinery. Today, however, he had a purpose, and the proper paperwork to get him past any suspicious mechanics walking around with mechanical legs on their shoulders.
Weaving in and out of work sites, he occasionally stopped for directions on the way to the RA and the neutral zone, finding that it was generally easier to ask an old veteran than to wander around lost for valuable amounts of time.
With that in mind, he found his way about quite easily, and made it through the checking stations with little more than a quick identification, or ID, as the soldiers would say, check. His mother had always told him to be polite to authority figures as a child. "Mostly," she'd add, grinning cheekily, "So they can't stop you for no reason whatsoever, and you can get on with your business. Besides, a bit of sweet talking can get a girl," seeing his expression, she'd quickly add, "or boy where they wanna go in no time at all." With that in mind, he spoke up only when appropriate, kept his phrases short and polite, and offered little by way of conversation, and got through in record timing.
The neutral zone, he found, was in reality little more than a place to keep your things, right on down to your clothes and shoes. The people who performed the quick, thorough searches kept the ID cards until you were ready to leave. Everything else was shoved in cubbies, and everyone, men and women alike, were given one piece suits to change into. Blushing a little bit, Trunks did as everyone else, changing out of his hospital clothes and into the RA scientist outfits as soon as he was given one, leaving his clothes and slippers behind with the guards. In addition, he was given a thick pair of safety goggles, a small flashlight, and informed that he could find any materials he needed in the supply bins.
Mechanics like Mari or Carlos in the RA were given suits of black, and scientists like himself were dressed in white, with guards in green and ranking officers in blue. The suits were nothing like he'd expect; they were flexible, tight fitting, and outlined the body beneath with pinpoint accuracy except in the most private of areas. It was easy enough to reach any kind of position, without the added friction normal clothes offered. Indeed, they reminded him of the unique suits he and his father wore while fighting Cell, but without the plate armor.
The RA itself was isolated. Thick, thick walls capable of withstanding internal and external explosions ringed the entire area, with the most advanced safety precautions all around. Here, they expected as many explosions as humanly possible, and they prepared for all kinds. Only the floor was white, and due to the large amounts of explosions and other mechanical accidents going on around it, it was mostly gray, with bits of white showing beneath the stains. The walls probably were once white in color, but the same explosions that marred the floor damaged the walls' paint job much more noticeably. Trunks smiled, noting the supply bins and number of people running from one place to another, and the sheer amount of 'unfixables' propped up against walls, on tables, and tossed carelessly about the floor in what could only be described as a mess.
This was going to be fun.
*****
For the next few weeks, Trunks made it part of his agenda to go downstairs for short periods of time and work on the ever growing amount of suits to repair, making adjustments and notes in the famed notebook when he wasn't populating the RA. He slept much, ate even more, and worked himself nearly to death for as long as possible, making everything from the most mundane adjustments to the most complicated, back breaking additions anyone had seen yet. Upon request, he'd gotten Mari, Carlos and their group of friends to help him with the workload, getting their expert opinions while chatting about everything from families to adventures, cats and dogs, and food.
It was good to have friends about, and their laughter eased his spirit more than any counseling could have. Slowly, he began to realize the time and place for mourning, and what good he'd brought about by making sacrifices no one, by any rights, god given or not, could demand. But someone could ask, and in his heart, Trunks knew he'd make the same decision all over again if he could save lives, especially if those lives included people like these.
So together, they began fixing the machines, upgrading and replacing, finishing and rebuilding all sorts of suits, making each one better than the last, but just under what Trunks expected. The group of friends found him exhilarating to work with, pushing them to their limits and beyond the way they thought no one could do. With patience and humility, he reminded them of their flaws and took to complimenting each of their accomplishments while simultaneously suggesting ways they could make it more efficient the next go around.
He was, as always, allowed downstairs for what he deemed short periods of time, working tirelessly alongside his friends until pushed upstairs yet again. For a while, he thought of nothing but the machines, but as time went by, he began to notice less and less the pieces of art they worked with, and began to take note of the different faces around him. Time and time again, pilots would come in and out of the battlefield, and when they entered Trunks' line of sight, they were immediately recognizable by the sheer amount of weight they seemed to carry on their shoulders, and the way they carried themselves. No pilot was ever as quick paced or reckless as the mechanics, and they walked with purpose, pride and dignity, or they walked without direction in a dazed slump, dragging their feet as if they simply weighed too much to work with.
When he asked for a pilot, time and time again he'd be almost casually informed of their passing, and the tired ease the news was delivered with tore his heart. War and destruction…all they brought was pain, fear and death. Nothing good could ever come from it.
The pilots, he'd find, were more often than not on the front lines, and their survival rate was alarmingly low. If they stayed alive for more than a few months, they were considered good material, and those alive after years of fighting were promoted to officers, and removed from the front lines and pushed into even more dangerous battles on different layouts.
He made it his business to get to know the pilots, young and old, and talk to them, as he had with the patients in the hospital. The fellows he spoke with were said to have amazing luck, and first time pilots were known to go to Trunks, of all people, for words of advice, much like the way they'd go to old war veterans for battle techniques.
Every man he would talk to would leave with the same question, and none of them could fully answer what he asked. "Why?" that was his question. "Why do we fight this war, and what is it really about?"
Mary, one of the first pilots he'd actually met, and a good friend of his, seemed a bit puzzled by his questions. "What do you mean, 'why?' We fight because it's our duty, Trunks, you know that," she smiled easily, her blue eyes shining beneath a crown of short cropped red hair.
Trunks smiled at her, knowing without a doubt that she would answer him truly. "It may be your duty to defend, Mer," not long after meeting her and experiencing her altogether merry behavior in the face of danger, he dubbed her 'Merry,' or Mer, for short. "But what are we fighting for?"
"What am I fighting for, you mean. Until you get your wings again, Trunks, you're not to do any actual fighting," she reminded him, rolling her eyes in amusement.
Ignoring that statement, Trunks pushed on. "You tell me the Rebels threaten the peace, and attack our bases. I know this, because I've seen it." She sobered, looking into his eyes, watching the stars fall as he continued, fire lighting within those shining obsidian pools and pride beginning to live again within their depths. He'd been through a lot, everyone knew, but how much, none could tell. Looking at his pale and slight form, she knew it must have been significant, for such a strong soul as his could not be easily marred. "But have you ever given a thought as to why they're fighting?" he asked quietly, motioning for her to hand him a screwdriver.
"I--" she stumbled, looking flustered. Eager to distract both of them, she handed him the tool in question, and floundered, searching for the right thing to say. "They claim to want peace, but how can they with…?" she began, and trailed off. With warfare, she was going to say, but that would be hypocritical. They fought for peace, to preserve the world. "I mean, they're just…" she stopped. In truth, she knew nothing about their motives, or their hopes and dreams as a community. "They're rebels." She finally decided.
Trunks smiled, patching up her machine as he looked up. "You know, they call us demons." He replied, almost cheerfully. She looked aghast. "It's all in perspective, Mer. What we consider important, like the government, they may very well consider corrupt."
She bit her lip, not quite sure what he was after. "We fight for peace." She began, voicing her earlier thoughts. "To preserve the world and create a…" she stumbled again. "To create a better era…something our descendents will be proud of and…something good."
Raising an eyebrow, Trunks just smiled. "So we're fighting fire with fire, hmm?" he swiftly disabled one automatic weapon, and began fine tuning its mechanisms. "So what happens if our fire power gets out of control, and traps everyone within?"
Mary looked down. "I don't know."
"They're just people, Mer. All of them have hopes and dreams…families. They fight for a reason. Even if we don't know what it is, it's there…" he sighed. "Y'know, someone told me once, a long time ago," thinking of his mother, and her sad blue eyes, he continued, "that wars are caused because of lack of communication. I didn't believe them at the time, but…" he shrugged. "Looking at this, I have to wonder: could there be a better way?" he flipped the panel revealing her suit's interior closed, and met her gaze evenly. "Maybe all our problems could be solved with something as simple as what we're doing now."
Mary raised an eyebrow now, unconvinced. "Fixing suits?"
Trunks laughed. "Talking, Mer. Talking."
Variations of this conversation continued with people of all levels, from raw beginners to trained, veteran officers. Of course, he'd heard the most common excuses everywhere: they were putting the rebels in their place, and protecting the world to promote peace, but there were no real answers. Not a one of them knew why the Rebels attacked, nor understood why it was their duty to fight them. But the enemy slowly became real in each fighter's mind, and very few pilots would ever kill without mercy. They began to show compassion, and grow as people, learning the ways of warriors rather than that of pilots meant solely to kill or be killed.
And slowly, they would become something more.
Trunks, on the other hand, was left with questions to which he had no answers, and nothing he said or others told him could ease his conscience. This war was not just, nor was it right. But neither was the other side, the Rebels, solely good. What could he do, but continue?
It seemed fate had quite a bit in store for him, and with no choices left but going forward, he dreaded the day that would bring him face to face with all that he feared.
*****
tbc…
The next chapter should be up relatively soon. I'm not making any promises, however.
In light of (personal) recent events, I'm going to be trying to finish this
story by March 7th. This is
mostly for my convenience, so that means that as soon as I finish a chapter,
it'll be uploaded a day or so afterwards, giving time for Meghan to edit and
Taise to bother me about details.
Thanks be to Raina, for your insightful comments! *Grins* I'm not sure if the high angst is a good thing or not, but one way or another, some things will be resolved. It's nice to know if I'm carrying something through, even if it's not the plot. *Winks* broken promise isn't good, ya know.
*Groans* ugh…you're talking about that one chapter I didn't edit, aren't you? *Winces* for one thing, it's not been checked over for character interaction, development or believability. And there's too much wrong, so I don't wanna fix it…I'll keep your comments in mind when/if I go back and fix that. Girlishy romantic desires, huh? *Blinks* wouldn't know much about the girlishy stuff (seeing as I'm a boy…) but I was more or less basing her off Relena Peacecraft from GW. Only in a Lady Une type position…(Sorry if you don't know what the heck I'm talking about…GW, as mentioned before, is one of my favorite anime shows)
*Grins* poor me. *Laughs* you can say that again…you seem to have picked up well on the chara differences, so I'm not so sure about what you mean by "can't tell the difference." Meghan and Taise read over my shoulder as I write for grammatical stuff, so by 'editing' I mean fine tuning. You don't know how many times I've been told to rewrite entire sections just because it doesn't sound right…that's about when I throw something at Me-chan.
I'm writing as much as I can. *Grins* there's only four or five chapters left for me to write, so the end is in sight. Hopefully. Unless I come across an unexpected side-turn…then it could be more. Me (a.k.a. Me-chan or Meghan) is talking about what we've dubbed "Horrifyingly Sad." It doesn't have a beginning yet because I've been avoiding it for months now…as soon as it reaches two or three or four chapters, then I'll post it.
*Not sure what to say to the "BOO" bit* uh. Thanks for the support? *Grins* I talk too much…anyways, sorry for the long bit of response. I haven't quite figured out when to stop writing…
Thank you, Cat's Meow! (I like your name…) compliments are always cool…*Beams* although that usually means I get all the bad stuff I do rubbed in my face by my brother or Me-chan…*rolls eyes affectionately* they don't "want me to get a bloated ego." (Not to be confused with the waffle thing…) *Smiles* details bring worlds to life…that's my opinion, anyways.
Questions, comments, critiques, rants and such are always welcome. I can't get any better if you don't tell me what's wrong.