A/N: Guess the narrator. It isn't hard.

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This

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This is the day. This is the time.

This is now.

This is the moment of definition. This is how it begins, or how it will end. This is what they will write in the history books, in the medical journals.

This is my legacy. Personified.

This is the beautiful girl of the big city. The island city, the tropical getaway. This is her short, stylishly cut blonde hair, pale as cornsilk, the brightest sunlight, fanning over the steel bed. This is her crudely ripped jean jacket. This is the sacred Red Ribbon patch I stitched on.

This is her strange brother. This is the one who snatched a switchblade from his jeans pocket, and slashed it across my chest. This is the scar he gave me. This is the smirk I wore, dreaming of his switchblade's future victim-- Goku. This is the child I chose, this is who will bring the monkey child down.

This beautiful girl and this strange boy.

This is my pride as a "father," this is how I will feel as I watch them strangle Goku's wife, and torture his child.

This is how elated I am.

This is the moment. This is the time, the day, hour, minute.

This is my hand, pressing the activate button.

This is the beautiful girl, this is her ice water eyes on me, hateful as fiery hell. This must be the way the tyrannosaurus eyes the prey.

This is the strange boy, identical eyes, this is his smooth, ivory hands reaching for the control, trying to sink into my stomach.

This is my cry, this is my yell, this is my hand deactivating them.

This is my rage. This is imperfection! This is misery.

This is when my eyes stray to the incubators, reading "Seventeen" and "Eighteen."

This is my failure.