The truth was, I hadn't been anywhere. I hadn't done anything. I'd been numb, wandering the streets of random towns like a common mortal, gazing nonplussed in the windows of stores and running my fingers along the brick walls, hailing taxi cabs and answering the driver's directional questions with, "home." No one knew where "home" was. No one could tell me and quite frankly, I didn't even know myself.
No one knew who I was and I liked it that way. For once, screams didn't proceed me as I made my way through the everyday crowds I lost myself in. I was anonymous.
I talked to very few people. Though I was lonely, I wasn't about to lower my standards to a level where I would allow myself to converse with the humans I passed on the street. I was a murderer, true, but I was also superior and always would be. Delusions of grandeur, I've been told, but then again, that's for a Doctor to decide, isn't it?
I had neglected saying goodbye to 17. I'd left him, too angry, too ashamed, to let go properly. Besides, I hadn't said my farewells to any of the humans I'd ever killed. I'd killed 17, too. What was the difference between his death, and theirs? No matter who died by my means, I was still a murderer. It all felt the same to me, it all felt equal.
And yet it felt wrong. Things were out of place and my priorities had been scrambled. But I did nothing about it. I didn't have to.
I saw Trunks everywhere. I'd see him rounding the corners of buildings, crossing the street when the lights changed, sitting on park benches; but every time I looked again to make sure I wasn't daydreaming, he'd be gone. He was a mirage, like the heat rising from the asphalt of the public basketball courts on days the sun never ceased to shine. Something so unreal had never tormented me like that.
Of course, seeing him everywhere made me think of him often. I hadn't seen or heard from him since the night 17 and I had destroyed the arcade. I also hadn't caused any trouble since then. I was enjoying my privacy and my solitude as much as possible and didn't see any reason to make myself unwelcome.
Having Trunks on the mind wasn't helpful.
Neither was running into someone so close to him.
I'd never met her before, yet as soon as I saw her, I knew who she was. I'd heard of her; her father had owned a very famous and well-off company that had "revolutionized the world of technology," and had it's name on almost every building in every city. She was a supposed genius as well, and had long ago planned on following in her father's foot steps. After he died, she had taken over his company and continued his work. Her name, I believed, was Bulma Briefs.
She had come into town looking to buy some sort of mechanical parts for a new invention she had been working on. The only store in town that sold such part was Haku's Hardware, a small business located on the corner of a particularly quiet street. Most mornings I would make my way down the street, glancing at my reflection in the windows of the stores and seeing, for no particular reason, what was being sold that day. Though I had no money, I was convinced that I could steal what I wanted. After all, who could stop me? I would wait until this town bored me to take what I wanted. This morning, however, instead of noticing the new shoes or hand bags that were displayed, the bright blue pony tail of Bulma Briefs caught my eye.
From what I could tell, she was aging gracefully, but certainly didn't look young and vibrant. Her face was kind, and her tired eyes were accompanied by several worry lines creasing her forehead. She seemed faded, as if she had lived through hard times that had worn her down respectively. She had her elbows propped up on the front counter of Haku's Hardware, pointing out certain parts to the salesman, who would hold them out for her to examine.
I stopped, watching her and the salesman interact. They'd chuckle from time to time, sharing mechanic jokes and trivial advice on tools. Bulma's laugh sounded genuine, or at least what I could hear of it. I narrowed my eyes, trying my best to pick out the similarities between her and her son. I came to the conclusion that Trunks had inherited more of his father's features. So much the better, however, because Vegeta had always been one of the more attractive non-humans I'd had the experience of meeting.
For some unknown reason, Bulma turned her head and looked right at me. I stared back, watching as the realization of who I was dawned upon her. She opened her mouth as though she meant to speak, but instead turned back to the salesman, who looked confused as her slight panic. Smirking to myself, I looked on as she muttered something inaudible to him, and his eyes widened, but he made no point of looking at me. Bulma smiled, and, keeping a steady pace, headed for the back of the store, frantically searching her purse for something. Catching on, the salesman curtly replaced the tools in their designated showcase and came out from behind the counter, and hurried to follow her.
Curiosity got the best of me and I decided to follow Bulma, too. In an instant I was atop the building, scaling the roof and coming to stand at the edge, watching as the two humans climbed into a Capsule Corp. car. The vehicle started up and sped off down the alley way. I laughed. If she thought she was getting away, she was in for a harsh surprise.
I'd never bothered to find out where Trunks lived. I'd almost been afraid to let myself, knowing that if I ever discovered his address, I'd constantly feel the urge to spy on him. I wasn't a peeping tom. I was an android.
But an opportunity like this wasn't worth passing up.