Percussion
Chapter 1

Destination Override

"Are you sure you have everything?"

Trunks sighed wearily, answering the query for what must have been the fifth time as he shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight that shone in his face. "Yes, I'm sure." He turned away from his mother, climbing into the metallic, egg-shaped craft.

Next to him lay a small satchel. It contained a set of files, as well as a data disc with a far more extensive collection of information. Bulma had made sure to reformat the disc, ensuring that it could be read by the computers available seventeen years in the past.

Trunks had looked through the simple text document that contained a summary of the most important discoveries his mother had made. Each was cross-referenced to a host of other files. He'd gleaned some of the most important points, having looked through a summary of the evidence Bulma had gathered and the host of possible explanations for the problems. That seemed straightforward enough—Trunks knew he needed to remain on the lookout for any time-related disturbances, along with any scientific meddling with the time stream and potential sources of magical interference.

The more detailed explanations, as well as the numerous lists of calculations and pieces of seemingly free-floating data, went straight over the teenager's head. He may have had a natural knack for science, but nothing could make up for Bulma's decades of experience in advanced tech development.

Trunks removed his sheathed sword from his back, setting it down as he slipped into the control seat. He didn't really need the sword, but he had always been more comfortable fighting with than without it.

One thing the teen had come to realize was that craftsmanship was as much a science as an art. His mother had made the sword for him in her lab when he was fifteen. It had been an unusual gift, but an incredibly useful one. It had been made with such scientific precision—the weight, balance, and heft had all been perfect.

Few moments in his admittedly young life had filled him with the same shock as when his first sword had been destroyed. Bulma had surprised him when she replaced the destroyed sword following his return to the future. If he had not seen his old sword broken in his fight with Android 18, he honestly wouldn't have known the difference.

"Now, are you absolutely sure—"

"Yes, mother." Trunks cut Bulma off. His somewhat harsh tone was softened by the smile he gave her. "I'm ready to go."

Bulma nodded, looking up at her son as he arranged himself in the time machine. "Make sure no one sees you land. Capsulize the time machine as soon as you get in."

"Right."

"And don't do anything reckless! We can't risk destabilizing the time stream any further."

Trunks couldn't help rolling his eyes at that. "I know. It hasn't been that long since I last did this, remember?" That much was true. It had been less than a year since he had returned from the past for what he had thought would be the last time.

"Yeah." Bulma sighed sadly. "Hopefully you won't be gone as long this time."

"I'll be fine," Trunks responded with authority. He spoke with far more certainty than he actually felt. The teenager's nerves were completely on edge—he knew how greatly the other timeline had diverged from his own, and had no idea what ripple effects might spring forth from one more voyage in the time machine. The truth was, he didn't know how much good yet another trek through time would do.

He quickly cast those doubts aside. There was no time for anxiety and second thoughts. Trunks and his mother had run out of options; failing to act could have far more ruinous consequences than taking this chance.

"I'll be back soon." He pressed the large yellow button on the panel to his right, closing the machine's glass top.

The teenager frowned as he attempted to sort though his thoughts. This mission would be very different from his last trip into the past. Then, he'd had a particular goal, and could take direct action. Now, he could do no more than search for clues, hopefully rooting out the source of the temporal instability.

Trunks plugged in the appropriate date and spatial coordinates. This would land him only a few months following his last departure from the past. With that, he activated the machine.

Trunks instantly felt the familiar, unpleasant twisting in his gut that always accompanied time travel. It wasn't painful, exactly—just strange and uncomfortable. Moments later, the world around him faded to black.

Here goes nothing . . .

The machine landed with a soft thud on the barren land below. The midday sun beat down on the desert as Trunks climbed out of the vehicle, quickly capsulizing it.

Trunks reached into the small satchel he had brought with him, digging around for a capsule holder. It took about a minute of searching for the teen to realize that he had forgotten to bring one.

Damn. Trunks silently swore, wondering how he could have forgotten something so basic. This was an inauspicious start to his journey. He slipped the capsule into his jacket pocket, making sure it was safely tucked away. It would have to do for now. He could borrow a canister once he arrived at Capsule Corp.

Trunks rubbed his upper arms, running his hands along the thin material of his purple Capsule Corp jacket. Despite the bright sunshine, it was fairly chilly out. Trunks mentally cursed himself once more for his carelessness. The teenager had known he would be landing in December, but hadn't thought to bring a thicker coat.

Still, these were minor details. Trunks had a job to take care of, and he knew this fretting was nothing more than procrastination. Without further delay, he closed his eyes, sensing the nearest center of human activity.

It only took a few moments for him to feel out West City's location. His blue eyes snapped back open. He foisted his sheathed sword and small backpack onto his back before taking off.

The flight to West City was uneventful enough. Trunks jetted through the brisk air of early winter. The coldness was surprisingly refreshing, and the anxieties and doubts that had preyed on Trunks' mind seemed to recede into the background. Trunks quickly came upon the edge of the city limits. He flew higher, hoping to avoid being seen by the city's residents. The last thing the boy needed was to be stopped by local news reporters or amateur photographers, demanding to know what new technology there was that allowed a man to fly.

As he approached the city center, Trunks landed discreetly behind a parked van. Though the city streets were a fair bit busier than they had been in his own time, the general layout of the city was no different. He briskly walked down the bustling thoroughfare, ever conscious of the confused stares of passers-by. He supposed a teenage boy wandering down the sidewalk with a broadsword strapped to his back was a fairly unusual sight.

Trunks felt a small smile tug at the corners of his lips as he walked in the direction of Capsule Corp. The city center was lively and crowded, bearing little resemblance to the damaged infrastructure still under repairs in his own time. Men in three-piece suits hurried down the street, clutching briefcases and compulsively checking their watches. Shoppers wandered into and out of various shops and boutiques. Months after Cell's defeat, a sense of normalcy had returned to this world. People were attending to their business and generally carrying on with their daily lives, all without fear or uncertainty.

Not only did that mean his previous mission to the past was a rousing victory, but it indicated that the time machine had successfully taken him to the proper timeline.

As Trunks rounded a corner, something flickered past the edge of his vision, giving him pause. He turned to see a news ticker mounted along one of the large office buildings, flashing with the latest headlines. But it wasn't the content of the scrolling news stories that caught his attention.

Posted between each news blurb was the date. 9 Dec. 776. Trunks blinked in confusion; had he misread it? He waited a few seconds for the next headline to scroll by. Sure enough, the date appeared again. 9 Dec. 776.

Trunks tilted his head to one side, frowning at the building. That made no sense. The day and month were correct, but Trunks was certain he'd set the time machine to land in 766.

"It has to be a glitch," Trunks murmured aloud, still looking intently at the news ticker. He stared down the scrolling red letters, as if expecting a response from the building. Yes, that had to be the reason. He couldn't possibly have landed more than ten years after his last trip into the past.

A passer-by shoved Trunks out of the way, unmindful of the boy's confusion and apprehension. That pulled Trunks back into awareness of his surroundings. Trunks shuffled to one side, trying to avoid further run-ins. As he moved to the edge of the sidewalk, he spotted a newsstand at the end of the block. Trunks broke into a run, narrowly avoiding barreling into several pedestrians. He paid no mind to the curses hurled in his direction, and was at the stand within seconds.

He grabbed the first periodical within reach. Trunks ignored the magazine's glossy, printed words and the bright photos on the cover. Instead, his eyes remaining fixed on the small text in the upper right-hand corner.

'December 776 Issue.'

Trunks' eyes went wide as the reality of the situation hit him. He had landed a full ten years after he'd meant to. Trunks pursed his lips as he focused in on the printed year, willing it to change. He had been extremely careful in plugging in the date of his arrival. How could things have gone so wrong?

"You gonna buy that paper or what?" The newsstand proprietor, a portly, bald man likely in his fifties, interrupted Trunks' thoughts. Trunks startled; for the second time in as many minutes, he had become so lost in his thoughts that he had been completely oblivious to his surroundings. The demi-Saiyan didn't usually display such carelessness.

"Uh, right. Sorry." Trunks dug into his pant pocket, pulling out a 500 zeni bill and planting it on the counter. He didn't wait to receive his change, instead shoving the magazine in his bag and moving on his way.

Trunks ducked around the next corner, planting himself on a public bench. The teenager pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting the pressure that was building behind his eyes and under his temple. He needed a few minutes to think.

None of the possible explanations were particularly pleasant. It was possible that the time machine had malfunctioned. If the problem did in fact lay with his transport, then it meant he might not be able to make it back home. There was also the possibility that the time stream had been so damaged that time-travel, once relatively reliable, could no longer take place with any reliability or safety. If that was the case, it meant things had gotten much worse much more quickly than he and his mother had originally thought.

"Okay, Trunks, don't panic," he said in a quiet murmur to himself. He could try traveling ten years into the past—the time machine still had a fair amount of charge left in its reservoirs—but that could just get him stranded in another time period. No, it was safer and wiser to just stay put, at least for the time being.

He may have landed in the wrong time, but at least he was in the right place. Given that there were no signs of the destruction caused by the androids, he was definitely in the correct timeline. Though he wasn't as far in the past as he'd intended, he had still moved nearly a decade back in time. Hopefully, that would be enough to give him the opportunity to fix what had been so broken.

Trunks shook his head as he stood, a plan in mind. He replaced his small backpack and resumed walking in the direction of Capsule Corp.

Bulma leaned back and stretched, setting the small stack of papers back down upon the kitchen table. She normally didn't work in here, but after days of being holed up in either her home office or her lab, she needed the change of scenery.

Bulma was getting cabin fever. She couldn't wait until the construction of the new corporate headquarters downtown was finally complete. The project had been delayed enough as it was, and was long overdue. Ever since Bulma had taken over Capsule Corporation's presidency, the company had undergone slow but rather dramatic growth. Dr. Briefs may have been a brilliant inventor, but he just didn't have Bulma's knack for business.

As it was, her staff was scattered through various office buildings in West City. Hopefully, once the skyscraper was complete, all of Capsule Corp's operations could be centralized. While the upper floors would hold the offices and conference rooms, all the various laboratories would be housed on the lower levels.

Though she had hosts of scientists and engineers at her disposal, Bulma still insisted on keeping work on the most important contracts within the family. Which was why she'd spent the better part of the morning looking through the latest defense contract, which consisted primarily of commissions for laser-guided weaponry.

She stood and refilled her porcelain cup at the high end cappuccino machine on the counter. The espresso blended with the steamed milk to create a pleasant light-brown color, before the freshly foamed milk filled the cup to the top. She was going to take a quick break before going over the order details and sending it down to the weaponry division of her research-and-development branch.

Bulma smiled to herself. Weapons design at Capsule Corp had seen an especially massive expansion over the past two years. The company had a certain Saiyan prince to thank for that particular development.

She took a sip of her piping hot drink, leaning back against the high counter. It had only been in the past two years that her husband had been working for Capsule Corp. Bulma chuckled a bit, remembering how it had started.

Vegeta had burst in on her, demanding that she once again upgrade his array of training bots. Bulma, however, had not been in the mood to be accommodating—her latest project had her utterly stumped, and her patience had already worn thin.

Vegeta rolled his eyes, thoroughly unsympathetic to his wife's frustration. "Can't your tinkering wait? I just need you to make the damn robots a bit faster."

Bulma whirled in her rotating chair, jutting out her lip and glaring at her mate. Vegeta, wisely, chose not to laugh at the admittedly comical expression.

"No, my 'tinkering' cannot wait!" Bulma spat, using her index and middle fingers to render quotes in the air. "I've been running simulations on these dual barrel rail guns all day, and I'm still getting too much recoil!"

Vegeta pursed his lips, leaning toward Bulma's desk to look at her computer screen. He looked keenly at the array of numbers, charts and calculations that covered the large monitor.

Bulma continued to glare daggers at her husband. "What are you looking at?"

"What are these figures here?" Vegeta responded to her question with another question. She turned back to see Vegeta's finger pressed against her computer screen.

"Those are the force vectors of the two individual barrels." Bulma swatted Vegeta's hand away irritably. "And don't get smudges on my screen."

Vegeta ignored her, placing his finger atop another line of data. "And this?"

"That's the expected force of the two barrels when activated at the same time." Bulma explained. Her glower softened into more of a confused frown. "Why?"

Vegeta suddenly laughed. Bulma quirked an eyebrow at the unexpected reaction. It was a startling, almost mocking sound. Though his laugh was not entirely unpleasant, it simply left Bulma more irritated. What could possibly be so funny?

"Woman," Vegeta bit out between chuckles, "is it possible you're actually this big a fool?"

"What are you talking about?" Her question came out sounding more perplexed than annoyed.

"The figures in these projections here. You have them added together."

Now it was Bulma's turned to roll her eyes. "Yes, I know that. I'm the one who wrote it out." Vegeta's command of the obvious was legendary.

Vegeta faced Bulma again, a self-satisfied smirk upon his face. "The power levels are supposed to be multiplicative, not additive."

Bulma's eyes widened for a moment before she raised one hand, loudly smacking herself on the forehead. Muttering a string of curses, she reached over to her keyboard, making the necessary adjustments. It had been a long week—that was the only possible explanation for her making such an obvious mistake.

She quickly altered the calculations in the computer program, downgrading the electric charge of each individual barrel before running the simulation again. Sure enough, the problem appeared to be fixed.

"It's working!" Her mood instantly lightened, she pulled her surprised husband into a tight hug. The embrace was rather awkward, both because Bulma was still sitting while Vegeta was standing, and because the Saiyan's posture had gone quite stiff.

"Yes, yes, now will you fix my robots?" Vegeta clenched his fingers into tight fists, indicating his displeasure at this sudden contact. Though Vegeta had become far more accustomed to such physical displays of affection over the years, he still didn't like being caught off-guard with them.

"First thing in the morning, I promise." Bulma finally let Vegeta go. Though the man could easily have escaped her grasp had he wanted, Bulma knew that he was more than a little hesitant to use physical force against her—and was quite willing to take advantage of that fact.

Bulma had to satisfy her curiosity. "How could you possibly know what the problem was?"

"Do you forget where I come from? I've been exposed to some of the most sophisticated weapons technology in the known universe. Did you really think the Saiyan Prince would grow up without some understanding of advanced weapons mechanics?" Vegeta shook his head. "Which shouldn't even be necessary in calculations such as this. It's barely more than basic arithmetic." Vegeta let out a small puff of air in exasperation. "Honestly, how do you get your shoes on in the morning?"

Bulma ignored the insults and pressed forward. "You don't fight with weapons."

"No," Vegeta shook his head, "but Frieza's bases and ships were well-equipped." The banality in his tone suggested that he thought he was stating the obvious.

Bulma grinned widely, the gears in her head visibly turning.

Vegeta had resisted at first, but after no small amount of cajoling, bribing and threatening, Bulma had gotten him on board with the idea of working in Capsule Corp's as a weapons developer.

Bulma had known even at the time that it was likely ill-advised. After all, her husband was a bit prone to obsession. In retrospect, getting him fixated on the intricacies of weapons design was probably not the wisest course of action. But Bulma couldn't deny that the man was good at what he did.

Besides, Bulma was in favor of anything that meant spending less time repairing damage to the Gravity Room.

Still clutching her coffee cup, Bulma moved back toward the large, metallic table at the center of the kitchen. Before she could resume going over the details of the contract, she was interrupted by the distinctive ringing of her doorbell.

Who could that be? she wondered. It was early Thursday afternoon, an odd time of day for visitors, and she wasn't expecting any deliveries. She prepared her best scowl; it was more than likely another door-to-door salesman. The woman had had more than her fair share of run-ins with those wandering merchants. She may have been an avid shopper, but not once had she seen a product carried by these men that she actually wanted to purchase.

Bulma would never understand why anyone would buy a combination dog treadmill and coffee grinder.

She strode down the hallway, ready to make the hapless peddler of wares cry, or at least seriously consider a career change. Her biting remarks about the salesman's job, self-worth, and likely physical assets died on her lips as she opened the door.

Her eyes widened as she found a purple-haired teenager standing before her doorway. Both she and the visitor stood in silence as Bulma registered the logo upon the purple jacket and the familiar face. Realization hit her all at once.

"Trunks!" A grin broke out over her face. "Kami, it's really you!" Before Trunks could return the greeting, Bulma lunged at him, pulling him into a tight hug.

"Hello, mother." Trunks squeezed back gently as Bulma reached up, digging her fingers into the boy's ponytailed hair.

Bulma released the embrace after a few moments. "It's been a long time." She looked the teenager up and down, her blue eyes taking in his young face and slim, muscular physique. He didn't look much older than the last time she had seen him, more than a decade before. "Though it seems like more for me than for you. How have you been?"

"Mother." Trunks' serious tone cut off any small talk. A deep concern was plainly visible in his eyes, and his lips were pressed into a thin line. "We've got a serious problem on our hands."

A worried frown settled on Bulma's face. The happiness she had felt at seeing the teenager quickly gave way to nervousness. His last arrival in the past, after all, had brought with it catastrophic news. Whatever had brought the teenager into this time period, it couldn't have been good.

Bulma stepped to one side to allow Trunks through. "Please, come inside and tell me what's going on."

Trunks took a deep breath as he stepped through the threshold of this larger, far more luxurious version of his own home.

"Where do I begin?"

Bulma had not aged much over the years, but the changes were nonetheless visible. Her hair was shorter and more businesslike, a marked contrast from the longer, younger-looking style Trunks had last seen her sporting. The faintest of crow's feet lined her eyes and she listened attentively to Trunks' words, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Trunks repeated everything he had learned, giving Bulma the small data disc and the files he had brought. It was only once Trunks had finished speaking that Bulma responded.

Bulma stared at the reflective disc that now lay in her palm. "This is a lot to take in, Trunks."

Trunks nodded sympathetically. "I know it is." He had thrown a great deal of information at Bulma in one go. Though he understood that she would need time to fully process all the news he had given her, he had to press forward.

"So you haven't seen any similar disturbances here?"

Bulma shook her head slowly. "Not at all."

Great, Trunks thought, another dead end. The time-traveler realized that he shouldn't have been surprised; this had been a shot in the dark anyway. He had originally planned on staying in the past to figure out what the problem was, but in the absence of any apparent problems time stream, there was little his presence here was likely to accomplish. If things seemed to be perfectly stable in this timeline, it might be best to return home.

Trunks decided to say as much aloud. "In that case, maybe I should be heading back. My mother . . . uh, you, will probably need my help."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Bulma said, looking up from the metallic disc and once more making eye contact with her eighteen-year-old son. "You meant to land ten years ago, and you ended up here and now. Who knows where—or, more to the point, when—you might end up if you try it again?"

Bulma set down the disc on the coffee table and picked up the thick file Trunks had handed her. "Besides, it's entirely possible that your trips through time are actually contributing to the problem." She flipped through the first few pages as she spoke. "It's best if you wait here while we figure out what's going on."

Trunks' confusion was evident as he responded. "But you just said that you hadn't had any similar problems here."

"And, as far as I know, we haven't. But we still might be able to isolate the problem from here."

Trunks looked away, another concern coming to mind. "I can't just leave my mother to handle this alone in the future."

Bulma looked up from the file, her facial features etched with sympathy. "Trunks, I really don't see any other option." She spoke gently, but firmly. "If you try time travel right now, you could just end up making things worse."

"So I'm stuck here?"

Bulma cocked an eyebrow. "Would that really be so bad?"

"Yes. No. I don't know, not for me, I suppose." Trunks fiddled with his fingers in an uncharacteristic display of awkwardness. "But . . . in my world, I'm all Mother has left. I have to find a way back."

Bulma smiled gently. It was hard not to be touched by how devoted the teenager was to what remained of his family.

"And you will. As soon as I can get a handle on what's going on and we're sure it's safe for you to go. You won't be doing anyone any favors if you manage to get lost in time."

Trunks shifted his gaze to his feet. He was not usually one to just sit around and wait. He had spent all too long doing that in the future.

Bulma seemed to read his thoughts. "Look, I'm sure I could use some of your help in the lab. After all, you're our link to the other timeline."

Trunks nodded in agreement. That, at least, was a constant between timelines—his mother was usually right about these things.

Bulma stood and gathered the stack of papers, as well as the data disc, in one arm. She gestured with the other arm for the teenager to follow her. Trunks rose from his chair, his thoughts racing. His future was again in danger, and once more he hoped that the solution lay in the past. But this time, he had no plan of attack, no hidden agenda, and no idea where to begin looking for answers.

His years of training, all his experience in battle, was useless here. Despite all his strength, as he followed his mother into the corridor, Trunks felt helpless.