Disclaimer: DBZ is not mine.
Warnings: Violence. Angst. Confusion due to dream sequence(s?). Possibly OoC on Bulma's part.
Losing Innocence
by Taes
Chapter 4
"Okay, sweetie," a rather irate Bulma began. "Let's try this again…" for the fourth time in less than an hour, the hand held computer, specifically a programming pen used for detailing the information in computer chips, had attempted to save her progress. Unfortunately for Bulma, this meant it was trying to access drives no longer accessible, seeing that she'd programmed the pen with her other computer, and when it tried to save the pattern she'd used, problems insured. "Mommy's gonna have to remove that 'automatic save' option or we're going to be in a bit of a mess…" she murmured to her small son.
Trunks, a 'big boy' of five years, nodded solemnly. "Okay…do you want me to do it?" he asked helpfully.
Bulma smiled. "Sure, sweet heart. Okies then, let's go this way…" picking him up, she led him and the misbehaving programming pen to the other side of the room, and easily connected the computer to the pen. "Okay, here's what you do…" a few minutes later, 'Trunks' fixed the pen under Bulma's tutelage, and the two of them were finally able to get back to work.
"Okay, since you're my big helper now, you can help me with my science experiment!" she grinned. "Won't that be fun?" Trunks, ever glad to help his mother with grown up stuff, nodded happily.
In one hand, she held the programmer, a pen Trunks knew to be very dangerous, and in the other, she held a needle and thread. Looking up at her, he knew she was much bigger than he, and even though he was a big boy, he had lots of growing to do. In comparison, his hands were very small, and he didn't know so very much about science as she.
Looking down now, Trunks' eyes grew large, and in alarm he pulled his mother's sleeve, trying to get her attention. "Mama," he began. "You told me to…" he paused, wishing his mouth could form the syllables as fast as he could think them. "You told me never ever to touch the…" he struggled for words, trying to force his mouth to move past the surprise. Not fear, he knew, because he was a big boy, and big boys were never afraid. "Programming pen while it was on, and…" he looked down at the experiment. "And that's me!"
Laughing in surprise, Bulma turned off the pen, and put the threaded needle down. "Oh, silly. That's not you." She grinned. "You know why he's not you?" Trunks shook his head. "Because you're right here!" she laughed and picked him up, spinning him around the room so that everything blurred together, appearing to his child's eyes to be the very essence of space. His mother's bright smile became the sun, and her love for him, all encompassing, became the vastness of space…the people, outside and in their houses, were all stars, and he could see them all…
"See?" she asked, her voice full of amusement and gentle chiding. "You're right here. We're just making a dolly for you us to play with…" she smiled again.
On the table, a small, white as bone-- snow, his mother had said, but it was bones he reflected, not snow --figure lay stretched out, with hair as silvery as the moon on a clear night. In his black, black eyes Trunks thought he saw stars, but his mother told him no, they were just eyes. Little buttons that only a doll could see with…
"Okay, sweets. You hold his arms very carefully so I can work, okay?"
Trunks nodded, and leaned forward on his stool.
The doll, silent as the dawn, began to beg, scream, and shout at him to stop. It was telling him that he couldn't, that he shouldn't do this.
And then he pulled back. "Mama!" he whispered urgently. "Mama, the doll's talking to me."
"Trunks, you know dolls don't talk…" Bulma reprimanded, and looked reflectively at the toy. "At least not this one." She smiled reassuringly at the little boy. "Okay, now hold him still."
Despite his fear, Trunks did as his mother asked. The love of a child is unquestioning, sweet, and pure as only the young can be. He asked no more questions.
But the doll, lying there, silent as death, only screamed louder.
Patient, but getting scared, Trunks tried to close his eyes, but didn't want to leave his mother alone. Softly, he began to sniffle, almost read to cry out of frustration and need to leave the doll alone.
"What's the matter, Trunks?" Bulma asked, turning to look at him. For the past few minutes, he'd been sniffling uncontrollably and rubbing at his eyes. "Don't like the universe that much?" she smiled, and stepped off her ladder. "I don't blame you…it's an awfully big place."
Confused, Trunks looked up; letting his hands fall back into place. He held a screwdriver with one hand, and the other held a small sun in place as he adjusted its brightness.
Trunks blinked. "Where's the doll…?" he wondered aloud, looking in confusion from the sun to the stars in the distance and the planets he and his mother had so delicately arranged.
Bulma looked perplexed, placing her tools on the floating table next to her. "What are you talking about, Trunks?"
Trunks looked down.
In his hands, a small, white doll withered in pain. Choking back fear and surprise, Trunks cast the doll aside.
His vision blurred, and the broken sun, hurled with all the might of a young Saiyajin, burst into flames as the chemicals and machinery inside the broken glass met the outside air. All around them, stars and planets burst into a fiery explosion that could only be described as…blooming. Like a flower, it started from the inside, moved up, and folded out, with some of the very centerpieces not exploding until the very end. Slowly, the gases began to fill the air.
"Trunks!" Bulma cried in panic, fear made her voice jump up an octave. "Get the fire extinguisher! QUICK!" She clutched at the ladder. "And don't touch the fire!"
Nodding his understanding, Trunks took a deep breath, intent on reaching the said materials before it was too late.
He turned suddenly, tangling himself in cords as he collided with his mother, pulling the programming pen and the threaded needle out of her hands as he went tumbling to the floor. The searing pain invoked was enough to cause even this brave little boy to cry out, and tears filled his eyes.
"Oh!" Bulma hastily unplugged everything, taking the root of the problem out before it could cause more damage. Moving faster than she would have thought possible, she scooped up her son. "Oh, baby, it's gonna be okay…Mommy's going to take care of you…shhh, hold still, okay? Hold still."
Doing as she asked, Trunks careened to a stop, the smoke and haze filling his eyes as the workroom began to burn.
"TRUNKS!"
"Shh…shhhh…Mommy's got you…it's gonna be alright…"
"TRUNKS, THE FIRE!"
Hush little baby, don't you cry…
Mama's gonna sing you a lullaby…
*****
Moaning with pain and regret, Trunks opened his eyes, not to see the interior of his suit, as he'd expected, but the grimacing faces of the Rebels who'd brought him down. For the past few days now, he'd been coming in and out of unconsciousness, unable to understand a word of their demands or form any questions.
After the battle, he couldn't really recall much…
For weeks now, he'd been fighting as he'd never fought before. From behind the machine's armor, he'd executed countless martial arts techniques against enemy soldiers, crying out for vengeance as tears fell down his cheeks. These people, these Rebels, had killed so many. Mary, one of his longest friends at the hangar, had died fighting to protect this land, and she…the foolish, bright eyed optimist that she was…she gave them a chance to surrender and come to a neutral place to talk. As soon as her weapons were down, though, they fired.
Their target was not the machine…they targeted Mer, when she'd finally listened to him, and gave them a chance to talk.
Maybe he was wrong to suggest anything.
Looking back on it now, he knew he was wrong to take her suit, still bloody, still not quite in working condition, and wreck havoc on the assaulting groups. The rebels had some suits of armor to enhance speed, but very few technological advantages. Because they were limited to the primitive hand-held machine guns, they were alarmingly easy to overtake. However, as they'd proven before, they had enormously effective bombs, and combined with their basic hit-and-run strategies, they could cause quite a bit of sabotage.
He killed many. And then he slept…
When he awoke, nobody would look him in the eye. Nobody would tell him anything, but when he asked for her, for Mary, he knew she'd died.
Despite everything.
Stupid, stupid, stupid…
He'd made himself a target. Single-handedly, he'd torn their futile attempts at an army apart, detailing plans no tactician could find flaw with.
He was Saiyajin…massacre, fighting…it was all in his blood.
The Rebels, however, were a hell of a lot smarter than he'd given them credit for. They came up with a trap that not even he foresaw, sacrificing dozens of their soldiers so they could get at him. After completely destroying the controls of his suit, they'd pulled the wreckage back to their camp, probably assuming any pilot inside would have to be dead.
But he wasn't, and for some reason, the doctors and scientists wanted him alive. The mads, the Rebel soldiers called them. From what he pieced together, they were the ones that brought it all together, forming the armies and gathering teenaged boys and girls to fight their war.
Freedom, they said. They fought for the freedom of all people from the rule tyrants and dictators, to form a new government to improve lives everywhere… They fought for natural rights, independence, and peace between their two peoples.
"By fighting?" he'd asked, incredulous.
"Some things are worth dying for," Alex had replied. Dark of hair and eyes, already he showed the marks of a warrior, with his eyes glimmering with emotions so familiar to him…pride and arrogance. Alex challenged him voicelessly, asking him to refute the importance of these things they would die for.
Trunks glowered at him. "That is true, Alex, but nothing is worth killing for…you can never justify death except by defense."
Alex's eyes glowed fiercely with conviction. "We defend our freedoms!" he snarled.
Trunks rolled his eyes. "Right. You go around killing people because your Mads say so, and you can't think of another way to get what you need." He was the very opposite of Alex in many ways, it seemed, the least of those differences being their physical appearances. "Do you know how many lives you've ruined because you and your army don't want to talk!"
Alex gripped his gun tightly, seething as he tried to regain his composure. Though young, only in his late teens, he'd reached a surprisingly high rank. Serving as an advisor, mechanic and pilot in training, he had plenty of free time to study 'the art of war' as he called it. Trunks would just as soon dub this the study of 'death and dying.' The boy knew of more ways to kill a man in the air than there were days in a year, and that was saying nothing about fights on the ground… "I don't see any of your PEOPLE offering!" Alex spat.
Trunks sighed. "You're right…not many are." He looked at the floor. "And those that do die so quickly…" he frowned, and closed his eyes. "Yours don't help. Whenever a soldier would offer a friendly solution, they'd cripple both the pilot and the suit." He leaned against the chair, staring up at the ceiling. How am I supposed to do anything when no choices I can make are right? Even if I remain inactive…that's still wrong. "This is not a just war…there is no right and wrong." Suppressing the urge sigh again, he looked up at Alex. "No good or evil."
Alex looked at him curiously, as if just noticing something. "You're cracked, aren't you?" he asked, a little awed, a little fearful.
Trunks bit back startled laughter. "And you're asking that…why?" he nearly choked.
Alex nodded to himself, smiling somewhat. If anything, he relaxed a little bit. "Thought so. No body can think like you and be completely sane." He smiled, and gestured to a door. "Come on then. If you're insane, then I suppose it's alright to introduce you to the others."
Dumbfounded, Trunks stared at the spot Alex had occupied, and shook his head in blatant amusement. It seemed as if this boy was more comfortable with dealing with insane folk than not… Following his lead, he stepped through the door, not knowing what to expect.
"Hurry up, then. I want you to meet the pilots."
*****
As it turned out, the pilots were all very suspicious of him until Alex explained, quite calmly, that he was 'cracked.' After that, they eased up a bit, and regarded him with open curiosity, introducing themselves one by one. There were ten of them, altogether, all of them young, relatively healthy and in good physical shape. These ten were undergoing training by the Mads after, he was alarmed to find, they'd trained with the Allies. Apparently, as soon as they'd gained the right to fight alongside their fellow peers, they'd all pulled vanishing acts, and used some of what every Allied soldier knew against them. His head spinning, Trunks looked from pilot to pilot, listening to their plans for becoming the channels for what became known as Super Giants, the suits still in design for mass destruction and power enough to take on armies.
Specifically, they were to take on the armies of the Allies.
There were no comparisons to be made between the two. The Rebel armies consisted mainly of lower-class people trying to better the world, idealists all, mostly young teens, all of them naïve enough to believe that because they fought for good, they would win. These children, unfortunately, served as fodder until they'd proven themselves capable of handling the more experienced, better-trained Allied soldiers.
When they began to run low on lives to spend, the pilot candidates would go around the countryside recruiting, beginning low-level training programs so that they might have people ready to fight by the time their soldiers were nearly all dead. It was dangerous to venture into the cities, where the Allies found their young pilots, but sometimes they would go here as well, buying time until their 'secret weapon' was completed.
The few older people, and all of the pilot candidates, served as 'Generals,' and directly above them, rank wise, were the Mads. Under these scientists' tutelage, these children began a new form of training that included a variety of things.
Unable to fathom the possibility of it all, Trunks listened in something akin to awe as they recounted their tales of infiltration to steal computers, and learn of what new improvements were being made. They employed Guerilla tactics, and worked together as the Allies couldn't seem to, relying on one another to pull a comrade out when they needed it. In short, they learned all about long distance terrorism.
The Mads were scientists, it seemed, geniuses who'd fixed up old parts and set the general designs for the Super Giants use. They were to resemble the usual suits, but with more added than the average machine. These machines, as it turned out, were man sized suits of armor constructed completely out of mechanical design to enhance a person's strength, mobility and speed, just as the Allies' suits would. And like the Allies, these suits would be launched from large Mother ships at the sight of a battle, where yet more hand-to-hand combat would ensure to protect the respected ships as the huge battle liners aimed at one another.
It could work, with some more supplies and skill behind it; they could very invent machines to top even those of his design. They were months away from creating a new form of suits that would surpass even the Allies, and in doing so, they could very well win the war. All they had to do until then was hold the fort, and try to keep their bases from being completely destroyed.
The designs themselves were interestingly simple. It was a new spin on an old idea, mimicking everything right on down to the advancement of Fighter ships. These ships would be of smaller sizes, and would act as cavalry to rescue stranded suits. They designed to have more speed and agility than he'd have expected, especially when he considered the Fighters the Allies had employed now.
Very few of their improvised machines had the standard stealth systems the Allies invoked, seeing that these were powered by the mother ship, and when they broke the tracking devices that allowed for almost indefinite rescue, the stealth modes were almost completely useless.
It was a creative bit of genius that anyone could have that of, and that, Trunks found, was the most surprising thing of all. The Super Giants created by men of talent, skill and ingenuity…
And these children…these trainees…would pilot them.
*****
Intrigued, Trunks would almost have volunteered readily, but before he could, the pilots shoved him into things, insisting that he take a look at the designs and see how everything was done. To them, insane meant he was 'safe,' and not likely to hurt any of them. Insane to these children meant genius in some way or another, and they were intent on finding out where his talents lay.
So he'd tinker with the machines, mulling over plans and wondering what he would be expected to do in other circumstances.
What could he do?
In those dark times, he recalled the discussions he'd held with Mari, Carlos, and their group of friends, going over their suggestions and opinions as he tinkered with the Rebel's machines. Even now, he valued their beliefs nearly as much as their company, and took to designing specific 'breeds' of suits based on their comments, keying in small parts to each design, marking them with distinctive colors and form. He nicknamed them after the people who inspired them, and after a while, the names stuck.
Mari's became the Fire Demon, the most menacing little devil he'd ever had the misfortune of creating, and Carlos' became the Angel. Their friends' proposals became the Avenger, Birds, the Black Dragon, the Wyvern, and most curiously, Hope.
Mari's demon mostly included extra bursts of firepower, with the most obscure little conveniences installed to keep the pilot level headed and calm as possible, much to his private amusement. While designing the Tri-beam cannon, as Trunks called it, remembering tales of young Goku and Tien, yet more dents were added to the stone floor, and the walls acquired a peculiar silhouette in the shape of one small teenager.
His protective suit was just about as useful as using notebook paper against an open flame, but remarkably enough, he was the only one in the direct line of fire, and it didn't hurt him nearly as much as it did the wall.
"I think maybe we need a safety trigger," Trunks had said at the time.
The demon itself was red as flame, much like Mari's temper, and streamlined enough to give them an edge, but everything down to the fingers could be used as weapons, bearing spikes and other such devices that could be rammed into another suit with painful results. It was, naturally, as demon like as he could make it, and considering everything he'd seen in his lifetime, that was quite realistic. When possible, nobody went near Mari's demon unless absolutely necessary.
Carlos' Angel was equipped with speed unlike anything they'd ever seen, with one single weapon capable of administering quick release, and it was equipped with another 'weapon' in the form of a light bright enough to blind any enemy. The testing of that feature left everyone in the Hangar moaning and complaining about damned kids. This resulted in the eventual installment of tinted safety goggles strong enough to withstand that light, both so the people being rescued wouldn't be left blind, and the people in the testing areas could see after an unexpected flare. Trunks cheerfully dubbed this trait the Solar Flare, and was swiftly banished from the Hangar for the remainder of the day.
The Angel was light blue, the color of a particularly strong Kamehameha wave, mostly white with tinges of 'heavenly blue.' These were streamlined, graceful, and the most agile suit Trunks had a hand in making. The force field of this one was quite visible, inspiring a sort of halo, despite the risk of the enemy being able to notice weak areas. For that attribute, he had to make the force field particularly dense and immune to breakage. Under enough pressure, however, it would break. For that, he advised the pilot in training for the suit to get in and out as quickly as possible.
The Avenger was more of a cavalry unit than anything, equipped with speed and firepower enough to cripple, but only for short amounts of time. Its most prominent feature was the electronic spear, which could, if aimed correctly and applied with the correct amount of force, penetrate just about any force field. Despite the mads' plea for less noticeable designs, this one was yellow in color, and in form it was more akin to the mythological god of thunder than anything else.
"These machines will inspire great things, sir. And if the enemy is scared out of their mind at the sight of one of these suits, then they'll already have greater expectations. They might over estimate, or if they're as untrained as you believe, freeze in their tracks." One of the mechanics, Trunks hadn't caught his name yet, quipped.
Dr. J, an old man with years and years of fighting and more prominently, experience with science, behind him, merely frowned. "Either that or they'll make martyrs of themselves and damage the suit and the pilot with one Kamikaze attack. They're too noticeable targets! We don't want our central weapons given away just by getting a good look them, soldier!" despite that, no one could convince Trunks, or any of the mechanics on their team, to change the design.
The only suit he'd made in duplicate was Alex's idea. The birds, designed for long distance air assault, were definitely group material. Because of their speed and agility, they had little room for weapons of enough firepower to cripple, but the 'arrows' they had were certainly enough to damage. In a group of four, they could take out an enemy suit, and back up their comrades more efficiently than another type. These were navy blue, and resembled a bird Trunks had seen once, an eagle, he thought it was called.
Unlike the others, this suit would not have a standing pilot, but one lying on his stomach with his arms focusing the wings. This was undoubtedly the most unusual trait, and the pilots being prepared for this breed of mecha were in for a totally new perspective.
The Black Dragon was a solo machine if it was anything, designed to work in synch with a Bird as back up, and equipped with just enough speed to keep up with the air assault. The flame-thrower it was enhanced with was peculiar enough in design, coming from the dragon's mouth, as it would in stories of old. This suit was sensitive to the pilot in the most extreme ways, giving it an almost ethereal appearance that suited its nature. Like a giant snake with wings, this suit was strong enough to take out any suit. The main weakness it sported, however, was the dragon's tendency to overshoot its mark. Despite everything, Trunks had yet to figure out how to encrypt a targeting system inside the intricate mess of entrails. Due partially to its sensitivity, the suit would move even as the pilot judged the distance, making a perfect shot nearly impossible.
It could be argued that this was the most powerful suit, but in all cases of arguments, there is always the other end to consider, and that end, in this case, was the Wyvern.
It was perhaps the most terrifying suit, even though its appearance was simple in nature. It was humanoid in form, styled after a dream, and a green monster with poisoned nails. Humble in physique, it was nowhere near as awe inspiring as the dragon. This assumption would hold true for some time, but only until the Wyvern attacked.
It was an unbeatable foe. With shielding strong enough to keep it invisible until it was in your face, it was damn near impossible to predict. This same shielding offered resistance to nearly any attack you could make on it. For the most part it was built to rely on the stealth mechanisms to keep covered, for its speed and agility were only as good as it needed to be. This, perhaps, was its most noticeable weakness.
Like all the suits he designed, the Wyvern had more than one noticeable feature, and its most remarkable attribute was not its stealth, but its only weapon. The claws on its hands and feet were equipped with an acid like substance that could burn through anything, leaving any suit it encountered crippled with its pilot exposed if the Wyvern got close enough. Like its cousin, the Black Dragon, it had something of a flame-thrower, but in place of fire, it threw acid. Similarly, its sensitivity kept it from making a perfect mark. While the dragon could use its flame-thrower numerous times, however, the Wyvern could use its only once, and after that, it could only rely on its poison claws.
The suit that troubled Trunks most of all was the one called Hope. He toyed with different possibilities, considering making a 'super suit' as Corry suggested, but disregarded it. The one person he could think of during the two days he plotted its creation, was Goku. And at the dawn of the third day, he had its creation mapped out in his mind.
It was a humble suit, with the same humanoid design as the originals, but with a blue crown atop its head. It could only be orange, he decided, red orange and yellow orange with blue trim to accent it, but with nothing particularly spectacular. It was streamlined, but unlike the other suits, its figure was more defined, more like the man it was modeled after than a machine. Despite the protests, he would not have it any other colors, or change its design in any way.
The most prominent trait he installed was the self-learning feature. With the right pilot, this machine could obtain any of the traits of the other suits, should the pilot be strong enough to handle any of them. The techniques could be copied, but never to the same extent. It was the only safety catch Trunks could imagine, wanting the to avoid a tyrannical machine with power to dominate even the strongest of armies. Without the right pilot, this suit would remain a main unit, but with the right person, it could become a something more altogether.
*****
He'd begun to think of this place as some sort of cave…it was nothing like the Allies' hangar, and even less like the RA. He's spent so many hours there; he was bound to notice the differences. Here, he had to scrounge for even the smallest bits of materials, and practice every bit of conservation technique he knew, and without the supplies he and his mother took for granted. There was scarce little light to work by, and several times he'd found himself creating a small chi globe just to see more clearly.
When there were no parts to be scrounged out, he'd opened every one of his capsules, looking for anything he could work with even remotely. Eventually, he'd come across the extra pieces he'd picked up from the hospital. Most of them were odds and ends he couldn't have imagined a use for at the time, but had kept anyway because of his pack rat like tendencies with all things science related. Now that he saw them again, he had to grin. These little scraps would most defiantly serve as something…
As he carefully bent the small pieces into more manageable shapes, his thoughts drifted back to the days he'd spent raising the morale of his fellow patients, and all that he'd done there. During those days, he'd wanted nothing more than a good sparing session, but his body was in no state for physical exertion at the time.
He hadn't been training much at all, even after he'd recovered. In all these past weeks, he couldn't remember spending so much as one hour training. Without any sort of threat except that which he could imagine, it was becoming increasingly more difficult to do even the simplest routines, when he knew what sort of destruction he could cause. He was becoming weak…like his father had, when he'd buried himself with alcohol, but in place of that toxic drink, he buried himself in work. In science.
He knew better than that…didn't he? He'd witnessed the pain and damage it caused just to sit back and let the world dig his grave, and the hurt he caused around him. There was so much he could do, and he let himself rot?
For what?
He would defend peace, and the planet he loved so much…but could he risk his life, his spirit for people who didn't understand the meaning of compromise?
In his heart, he knew the answer, but he was in no shape to take the leap.
So that's going to have to change…from now on, I'm going to get myself back up to par. No more stalling when there's work to be done.
"The pilots tell me you're the one behind these crazy designs," the voice broke his concentration more effortlessly than the sounds of gunshot had, and as he looked up, already crouched in a fighter's position, a tall, old man wandered into view.
He was a large fellow, with bulky, thick-corded muscles that brought oxen to mind, though his steps were careful and decisive, unlike the unconscious plod of a beast of burden. There was something… evil about him. Something unclean and immaterial, like oil on water. Just being near him was enough to cause Trunks to want for fresh, spring air and cool water to wash away the taint.
And yet, somehow, despite all reason, it seemed the man did not intend to be here. It was as if the wind had forced his path, like a plowman led the oxen to the field, unwilling, but too stupid to care or resist.
Uncertain as to how he should respond, Trunks looked warily from his machine to the hulking figure, noting with some unease that while the man stood in a relaxed position, his footwork held signs the same signs of a long practiced warrior; always at attention, and always ready to spring into action. Should there be need. "That's true," he would have said more, tried to explain how they'd begun working in tangent, but the words died on his tongue as he watched the man.
The ox like man sneered, and beneath his lab coat, he wore loose fitting clothing, like Gohan's gi. "You've cost me quite a bit of money." Always he would stare straight ahead, never giving Trunks his full attention. His focus was on the world outside, with the aerial suits overhead and the bombing going on and on as he watched, almost dreamily, as a child watches the clouds pass.
Trunks shrugged. Gohan, sensei, I have need of your wisdom…It was no wonder the pilots had left early; they must have guessed that one of their trainers were to visit him today. If he had the choice, he would never see one of the Mads again. "You want these things built, don't you?" behind the casual ease he delivered the words, he felt himself coiling, just waiting for the strike to come.
Eyes narrowing, the scientist turned his liquid gaze on the teenager, his dark eyes sliding over him like so much oil, trapping him in place. Trunks froze. "You know very well, boy, that we have been working on these for a very, very long time--"
Annoyed, Trunks set aside the tool he'd been using, and his gaze focused on the man's obsidian orbs. "So you should be thankful for the amount of time I'm saving you," he quipped. Easing into a more fluid state of being, he let his chi flow throughout his body, ignoring the searing pain it caused, and the burning sensation he felt behind his eyes.
"You are of the Allies," he breathed, and looked back to the window. A single suit fell to the earth, where it was swamped with yet more bombing, scattering the pieces all across the field, with the blood of the pilot staining every one of those parts. "How can you be trusted?" the grime and disease the scientist inspired were all about him now, slowing Trunks' responses and keeping his thoughts in place. It was near impossible to think around this man, this hulking figure he'd likened to a beast, but…
Fighting the impulse to beg forgiveness, Trunks found himself thinking of his father, his teacher, and of all people, the young Gohan he'd met all that time ago, in the world where his father was not all he seemed to be... Saiyajin do not beg. It was as simple as that. Not even the weakest of Saiyajin gave up their pride. His father taught him that, without so many words. "Your pilots trust me well enough," he remarked, and smiled, meeting the scientist's gaze.
Outside, as the rain of terror continued to fall on their men, and the Allied soldiers Trunks had fought with, not long ago, and their ears were filled with the sounds of death and destruction. The lone man, a scientist, looked deep into the eyes of a boy who'd survived, and in them he saw war. The battle being fought was one more ancient than the Rebels, the Allies and their men, more ancient than human kind. The war between life and death raged on, and the cosmos reflected pain, sorrow and a glimmer of something the man could not name.
Death, he knew, would always win. But even so, life, bright, brilliant and bold as it was…it would struggle on. Looking into such depths, no mortal man can truly believe the lies he tells himself, that he is immortal, and no man can claim that his significance to the universe is so great as he would have it.
But this man…this scientist, insane enough to believe in a cause that could not be…
He smiled. "You have my permission to tinker with these toys, soldier." With that, he started towards the door, his footsteps small and precise, and the door creaked open. "You have three weeks."
The door slammed shut with more force than he anticipated, and the echoes flew about the room, this cave in which he dwelt, reminiscent of a man's dying screams…
And inside this prison, all hope seemed to diminish.
*****
tbc…
The next chapter will be out soon, by Friday, the 17th of January, if not sooner.
A VERY IMPORTANT question: can Trunks go SSJ2?
The end is in sight.
There are 14 chapters in all, counting the epilogue and the soon to be 8 chapters in Book II. This is an estimation, seeing that the last two and a half chapters haven't been written, and the others are being edited. If I ever get around to it, there will be an interlude between one of the beginning chapters in Book I to make 15 chapters, and to explain Vegeta's…uh…behavior, and possibly another chapter (making 16) to recap the DBZ series during the Cell saga if I ever see it. That's not very likely. (I haven't seen anything after Freeza. I'm poor, you'll have to forgive me…can't buy or rent videos, and I know nobody who'd loan any to me.)
Special thanks to Raen for helping me figure out how to find the log in button…I know that sounds stupid, but my computer is frustratingly stubborn, and resistant to change.
Thank you JJ and May for commenting; it's always nice to get some feedback.
JJ, thank you very much for the compliments. *Grins* it's getting well written, huh? (Grammatically, that's what it means…in case you were wondering…okay, so I tend to tease. I apologize.) Hey, I let you see Bulma! *Jokes* um, no, you do see some other characters, but I don't remember when…uh. I've been writing the past three or so chapters in as many days. It tends to make me forget little things, like what happens … (that's what editors are for! Reminding an author what they last said…*laughs*)
May, uh…sorry? But thanks for the compliment! I'll be sure to tell Angst that…it'll probably amuse him, being my sister's muse and all…
Questions, comments, rants, critiques and concerns are always welcome.