Percussion
Chapter 4

No Stone Unturned

Though Dende had been the guardian of Earth for the better part of Gohan's life now, the teenager would always think of the place as Kami's lookout. The white marble platform gleamed as brightly as ever, and the lush gardens were blooming green and immaculately maintained, no doubt a product of Mr. Popo's handiwork. It was a chilly and cloudless afternoon, so the lookout appeared to be surrounded by an endless expanse of deep blue sky. Despite the sheer number of times Gohan had been to this sacred place, he had never ceased to be impressed by its grandeur.

He and Trunks had arrived at the lookout mere minutes before, and Gohan was leaning against one of the wide pillars upon the platform as Trunks gave Dende and Piccolo the same explanation he had recited to Gohan. The young guardian's eyes widened with concern as he listened, clutching his wooden staff with one hand. Piccolo simply hummed and nodded thoughtfully throughout Trunks' recitation, his arms folded across his chest all the while.

Trunks wrapped up and shoved his hands into his pockets, quietly and respectfully waiting for a response. The two Namekians looked at one another before Dende responded.

"I'm sorry, Trunks," the adolescent Namek said with no small measure of hesitation. "I haven't seen anything like that from up here."

Piccolo nodded in agreement. "Whatever issues your world is experiencing," he said, his deep voice resounding with something like worry, "seem to be isolated to your timeline."

Trunks let out a small puff of air and looked askance. "Yeah, I figured as much. I just thought it would be worth checking." He turned to Gohan, a sad smile on his features. "I guess we're back to square one, huh?" Gohan shook his head in disappointment, noting with concern the despondent look on the other teenager's face. He had, foolishly enough, been sure that Dende would be able to steer them in the right direction. Of course his faith had been misplaced; given how dramatically their two timelines had diverged, there was no reason to believe that the Earth's young guardian would have any of the answers that the young time-traveler was seeking.

"I'm sorry," Dende repeated. "I promise I'll keep an eye out, but I can't make any guarantees."

"I appreciate that," Trunks said with a nod. "Thank you." He then turned politely to Piccolo. "So, how have you been lately?" Trunks said, seemingly resolved to change the subject. Gohan could understand the impulse—the situation had to be deeply frustrating for Trunks, being trapped far away from his own home and completely unable to find any answers. Any distraction from that mounting frustration, however temporary, would likely be very welcome. Despite the unfortunate circumstances, the small but genuine smile that Trunks gave Piccolo made the corners of Gohan's own lips twitch up.

"Alright," Piccolo said plainly in response. "I've been living up here for the past ten years. It's been an interesting change of scenery from the desert."

Dende nodded enthusiastically, giving the two teenaged demi-Saiyans a bright smile. "Piccolo's been a fantastic advisor."

"Don't listen to him," Piccolo interjected. "He rarely seeks or needs help." Dende flushed a bit, his cheeks turning a shade darker as his deep purple blood rushed to his face. "I'm not complaining," Piccolo continued with a small smile. "It leaves a lot of time for developing new fighting techniques."

Gohan perked up with interest. "Come up with anything interesting lately?" His former teacher had always been one of the most creative fighters he knew, and Gohan was ever eager to learn anything that Piccolo was willing to teach.

"Well, there is one technique. It's a combination of a Makankosappo blast and a scatter shot, but..." Piccolo trailed off for a moment, trying to gather the words. "Let's just say it's a work in progress."

"How's it coming along?"

"It's . . . well . . ." Piccolo paused, seeming uncharacteristically flustered. "Why don't I show you?" With that, the Namekian placed a hand upon Gohan's shoulder and squeezed gently.

Gohan felt a strange flash of warmth upon his shoulder; it fled as suddenly as it came. Without thinking, he blinked and looked around. He was still on Kami's lookout, but something felt very different. He felt his own power gathering in his palms, seemingly unbidden. He watched with interest as he let out a volley of small energy blasts, each consisting of a small core surrounded by a coil of pure ki. Each bulb of condensed power shot from his palms spreading out as if to create a small web. In an instant, however, his control over the bulbous beams was lost; Gohan felt a mild panic set in as the blasts scattered, some dissipating into the air as several others made contact with an unfortunate column, drilling through the fine marble.

Gohan blinked again as his vision cleared. There was no burned and crumbled pillar before him. There was no residual ki aura surrounding him, no lingering energy resting in his palms. Instead, Piccolo was merely standing in front of him, as Trunks stared at the two of them in confusion.

Trunks turned from the other demi-Saiyan to the tall Namek and back again before speaking. "What just happened?"

Gohan spoke slowly, deeply unsettled by what had just transpired. "That's what I'd like to know." One minute, he had been engaged in calm and casual conversation; the next, it felt as though he had been transported to another moment in time entirely.

"I'd rather not destroy another column," Piccolo said nonchalantly, "so I figured I'd just transfer the memory to you."

Gohan shared another perplexed look with Trunks before returning his gaze to his mentor. "When did you learn to do that?"

"I didn't. Kami did."

"Why didn't you ever tell me you could do that?"

"I inherited several psychic abilities from Kami. I don't always have occasion to use them."

"Fair enough." Gohan let out a small shudder as a strange tension ran up and down his spine. "It's weird, it's like I was you. I wasn't just seeing everything through your eyes. I could actually feel it, like I knew what I was doing." The thought of having his consciousness so dramatically altered left Gohan more than a little uncomfortable.

Gohan would swear that Piccolo actually smirked at his observation. "Memory transfer is interesting like that." True to form, he provided no further words of explanation.

"So what happened?" Trunks interjected, this time addressing Gohan.

Gohan smiled. "Piccolo's new technique is a little difficult to control. The first casualties were Piccolo's pride and an unfortunately placed column."

Dende, who had been standing silently with the older warriors, laughed at the description. "It took poor Mister Popo hours to repair the damage. He had a lot of marble to cart around."

"Yeah," Piccolo said as he rolled his eyes upward, "we've given him a lot to put up with over the years."

Trunks glanced down at his watch suddenly, as if reminded by Dende's comment about the passage of time. He raised one eyebrow; Gohan guessed that he hadn't realized how quickly the time had passed.

"It's getting late," Trunks said. "I should probably be getting back to Capsule Corp."

"So what are you going to do now?" Gohan asked. His plan had been a total failure; they were no closer to finding the answers Trunks so desperately sought than they had been hours ago.

"Back to Plan A, I guess. Stick around, search for clues. Probably get some training in while I'm stuck here."

"Take care of yourself," Piccolo said, giving the violet-haired teenager a soft pat on the shoulder.

"Good luck," Dende added, as both Gohan and Trunks took off to make their descent back to the Earth.

"One sec," Gohan said as Trunks began to take flight. As unfortunate as the circumstances of his presence were, Gohan was eager to know how Trunks had been doing. Their earlier conversation had focused largely on the progress that had been made in Trunks' world since the androids' destruction, and though Gohan was glad to hear that the damage was being repaired, he genuinely wanted to know how the time-traveler he had known in his youth was holding up. All of their allies had been deeply concerned when they didn't hear from Trunks again following Cell's defeat. "If you've got the time, why don't you swing by my place tomorrow? We've got some catching up to do."

"Sure," Trunks replied after a moment's hesitation. "Yeah," he seemed to say more to himself than to Gohan, "that should be okay."

Gohan wondered why Trunks seemed so reluctant. He internally speculated that it may have had something to do with the reason Trunks had, without warning, broken down into silent tears back at his place in Satan City. That had been odd, seeing someone he had come to know as a tough, reserved warrior come unglued so unexpectedly. Perhaps even stranger was how suddenly Trunks had seemed to be fine again, his face betraying no hint of whatever sadness had moved him to tears mere minutes before. Gohan refrained from asking, however, and began his flight back toward his small studio apartment.

"This," Trunks said aloud, "is going nowhere."

The young time-traveler felt like he was going around in circles. He had returned to Capsule Corp from Dende's lookout deeply frustrated with his lack of progress, realizing that the mountain of files that his mother had entrusted him with was the only information he had to go on. He had given up on getting anything more accomplished around midnight the night before, and had returned to his attempts at research as soon as he'd woken up.

Trunks was sprawled on his stomach on his large bed, his head propped up on one of his hands as he read. Papers were strewn about him as he attempted to maintain some kind of order among the myriad sheets of paper. Progress that morning was, at best, slow. Trunks was gradually deciphering the complicated terminology that littered the files, but, in spite of how scientifically-inclined the teenager was, the fact remained that a large portion of the work his mother had compiled went far over his head. Certainly, much of the data was cross-referenced to appendices and glossaries, but these were of limited helpfulness. If anything, constantly shuffling between one set of folders and another had left his mind more muddled and confused than when he had started.

He was interrupted by a knock on his door. Though the noise broke his current train of thought, Trunks honestly didn't mind; he could probably stand to get away from his research for a few minutes and clear his head. Before he could say the words "come in," his door cracked open. Trunks looked up from his research to see his younger self standing awkwardly at the threshold.

Trunks gave his young counterpart a small smile as he sat up straight. "Hey, kiddo," he greeted warmly. Days following his arrival, it was still strange to see a younger version of himself running around. He bit back a chuckle; even the kid's hair was the same as his own was at the same age, parted along one side with a few spare strands sticking out, rather than neatly down the middle as the teenager's own was. "What's up?"

"So," the boy began slowly, stepping inside, "Dad says you're supposed to be training me."

"Yeah," Trunks nodded, remember the bargain he had struck less than twenty-four hours ago. "Uh, right now?"

"Yeah," little Trunks said, this time less hesitant and awkward. "I just saw him, and he told me to go 'find my neurotic counterpart' and get to training so he could get some work done."

"Neurotic?"

"His words, not mine."

The teenager chuckled. His younger self was barely eleven years old, and already had such a sardonic sensibility about him. He smiled as silence fell upon the large bedroom once again, as much of the tension between the two Trunks' had vanished.

The child peered at the teenager curiously as he stepped toward the bed, looking his older self up and down before speaking again. "Are you really me?"

Trunks' smile widened. It was good to know that this was as weird for his younger self as it was for him. The boy's demeanor was so different than his own had been at the same age; it was nice to find some common ground. "More or less," Trunks answered. "An alternate version of you, anyway."

"That's a little weird."

"I know. The last time I saw you, you were just a baby. You weren't even a year old."

"Mom has a picture of you holding me somewhere. I think I was tugging on your hair."

"Yeah, I remember that." Trunks jokingly rubbed his scalp at the recollection, his smile broadening. "You had quite a grip for such a little guy." He had to bite back a laugh as the child crossed his arms, leaning forward and positively oozing attitude. Bulma could say what she wanted about Vegeta's influence; it was clear that the kid got more than his fair share of his mother's mannerisms as well.

"You ought to see me now," the boy said arrogantly, tilting his chin up.

"Yeah," the teenager said, swinging his legs off the bed and standing up. He paid no mind to the few sheets of paper his movements had knocked to the floor. "I guess I should."

The first thing the teenaged Trunks had noticed was that his younger self's fighting style was very, very different from his own. The boy's moves were sharper somehow, more angular. His kicks and punches seemed to positively slice through the air. While the teenager had been taught in a manner that emphasized the dynamics of motion, the child was demonstrating a singular focus on the combat elements of martial arts. Even his stance seemed more aggressive.

The child dived for the teenager's head, a punch perfectly aimed for the older boy's nose. Trunks shifted quickly, narrowly avoiding being clocked. He had to admit that he was impressed with the kid's skill; more than once over the past hour he had been put on the defensive, despite his decisive advantage in both age and training.

The second thing the teenager had noticed was that the boy was abnormally strong. Trunks had set the gravity in the room to a relatively moderate 50 G's, thinking it would be more than enough to give the kid a tough workout. But no, the child was matching him blow for blow. The teen hadn't been nearly this strong at his alternate self's age. He assumed his father's insistence on training him at a very young age had a lot to do with boy's remarkable fighting prowess.

The elder Trunks blocked another kick to his head, realizing that he didn't have to hold back nearly as much as he thought he did. He returned the blow, much harder than before. The next thing he knew, little Trunks was hurling into the domes metal walls of the gravity chamber. The boy landed with a loud thud before sliding down to the floor, and the room creaked slightly under the strain.

"Oh no," Trunks said aloud, immediately feeling guilty as he powered down and moved toward the injured kid. Perhaps he had overestimated the boy's strength, or at least his training in defensive maneuvers. "Are you okay?"

The teenager felt more than saw the sudden surge of power from the child. Before he could fully register what was happening, Trunks felt all breath flee him, and his vision went dark. He gasped helplessly for a moment, more from shock than from actual pain, and gingerly wrapped his arm around his abdomen. He realized as his vision began to clear that he had landed on the wall at the opposite side of the room. That observation, however, paled in comparison to what he saw next.

The eleven-year old was standing near the center of the room, once again in sparring form. A golden aura of power surrounded him, and his once-violet hair was spiked up and platinum blonde. The boy looked at the teenager through teal-colored eyes, trying to anticipate the elder Trunks' next move.

The teen gaped for a few seconds, struggling to register what he was seeing. He blinked, using the wall to once again prop himself up into a standing position, all thoughts of training forgotten. This made absolutely no sense, but the evidence was staring him in the face. There was no denying the sight before him.

"You're..." Trunks blinked again, trying to keep from stammering. "Great gods, you're a Super Saiyan!"

"Uh," the child responded, not moving from his spot, "yeah?"

"What . . . I . . . you're eleven."

"Thanks," the younger Trunks said, slipping out of his stance and dropping his arms to his side. "I hadn't noticed."

The teen ignored the sarcastic reply. "When did this happen?"

"A couple of years back, a little after I turned eight. Goten did it a few months later, so he was younger than I was."

"Eight?" The older Trunks looked away, suddenly overtaken by a severe pounding behind his eyes. The overhead lights, though they were at a relatively low setting, now seemed all too bright. Nausea crept up in Trunks' stomach as his insides began to twist.

Trunks felt ill. He knew that, at age fourteen, he had been an exceptionally young Super Saiyan. Although this world's Gohan had been only nine, Trunks had figured that was due to the fact that the other half-Saiyan had inherited his father's unparalleled natural talents. Trunks had always assumed that he had managed to reach that legendary level as early as he possibly could have. Yet, standing before him, was undeniable proof that his body was more than capable of achieving that transformation at a far earlier age.

The gnawing in his gut intensified with a combination of guilt and horrible uncertainty. His mind began to run with useless, unanswerable questions: What if he had sought out Gohan's help in training before he had turned fourteen? Could he have stopped the androids earlier, saving countless lives from their wanton destruction? Could he have prevented Gohan's death? A thousand different hypotheticals flitted through the teenager's head, each of them leading to a disquieting conclusion.

Trunks could rationalize his delayed start all he wanted. He could tell himself that it was his mother, overprotective after all the losses she had faced, that prevented him from training and unlocking his full potential. The truth, he suddenly realized, was that he had been a frightened child, unable or unwilling to make the sacrifices necessary to give his world a fighting chance.

"Hello, earth to future boy," young Trunks said, waving one hand about and breaking into the teenager's thoughts. "What's up?"

"Nothing," the teen said, shaking his head and trying to clear those thoughts from his mind. Speculation would do no good now. "It's just that I didn't transform for the first time until I was fourteen." He looked the child up and down once more. "Unreal."

"Yeah," the kid said with a shrug, "you ought to see Dad power up."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he becomes a Super Saiyan, and then he transforms again. His hair actually manages to get even spikier. I think he calls it Super Saiyan Two."

The teenager immediately knew what the kid was talking about. It was a form he had only ever seen one other time in his life, but there was no mistaking the description that Trunks was offering. Somehow, over the past decade, Vegeta had become an ascended Super Saiyan.

The teen's musings were interrupted yet again, this time not by his pre-adolescent self's voice, but by a loud siren-like sound blaring through the gravity room. Red lights began to flash throughout the room, and the yellow overhead lamps abruptly shut off.

"What the hell?!" Trunks shouted over the sirens, covering his ears to protect them from the terrible noise that assaulted him. The younger boy did not answer, but simply ran to the control panel at the edge of the room, pressing the large red button to deactivate the gravity. Instantly, the red lights ceased their flashing, and the awful sound, mercifully, came to a halt.

"What the hell was that?" Trunks repeated, addressing the kid again.

"Alarms," the boy explained. "They go off whenever the gravity machine overheats." Young Trunks sighed, rolling his eyes upward. "Which means Mom has to recalibrate it again. She is not going to be happy." He let out a puff of as he powered down from his Super Saiyan form, brushing a few purple strains out of his face with an annoyed gesture. He had obviously had to approach his mother about the same matter on more than one occasion, and was not looking forward to her irritation and the scolding that was likely to follow.

Trunks raised one hand. "I can go get her," he offered. "I need to talk to her anyway." The boy nodded as he unlocked the door to the room, and the two of them made for the exit.

"By the way," the teenager said, placing one hand on his counterpart's shoulder. "You've got a hell of a punch."

"Please," the kid said, sauntering out of the room without so much as a backwards glance. "I barely touched you."

Bulma had moved the data disk and the large file folder from her large, luxurious office to the personal laboratory in her basement. The lab was a severe contrast to the office—papers were strewn about, empty coffee cups littered the counters and table, and, because of the lack of windows, the room was not nearly as brightly lit. The woman had obviously printed scores of documents off the disk Trunks had given her, and the table at which she was sitting was as swathed with loose papers as Trunks' bed was. Trunks felt much more at ease here than he had in Bulma's hexagonal office; this messy, almost austere laboratory reminded him of his mother's lab at home.

"Hello, mother," he said, greeting her for the first time that day. They hadn't seen much of each other over the last two days, as Bulma seemed content to lock herself up in her lab while she went over the massive amount of data Trunks had brought from the future.

"Hey," she said, not turning from her computer to face her son. "You set off the alarms in the gravity room, huh?"

"Yeah," the teenager admitted. "Trunks said the gravity generator was overheated?"

"Not overheated, exactly. Some of the mechanisms used to enhance the gravity can be a bit unstable. I wanted to make sure there was a way to monitor if the room became filled with excessive radiation."

"Radiation? Isn't that dangerous?"

"No. It's terahertz radiation, which isn't dangerous in and of itself, but it can be a sign that a gravity machines are malfunctioning." She still didn't look away from her computer, scrolling down a screen that Trunks had never seen before. The numbers that flashed along the monitor rendered a greenish glow upon her features. "I'll go recalibrate it later. It can wait."

"Of course," Trunks agreed, nodding and pulling up a chair next to his mother. "I actually came to talk to you to see if you've found anything."

"Not really," Bulma replied, twisting her head and finally looking at the teenager. Trunks couldn't help but notice that her eyes looked very tired, and there were fine lines scoring the sensitive skin just above her cheekbones. "There is a lot of data in here, Trunks."

"I know," he replied apologetically. He truly did feel bad for adding so much to Bulma's already massive workload, but the fact remained that much of the research was simply beyond him. "I haven't made much in the way of progress either."

"I didn't say that," Bulma said, swiveling her chair around and facing Trunks with her whole body. "I've learned a lot, I just don't know how useful that information is."

"Such as?"

"Well," she said, pointing one long-nailed finger at the screen, "a lot of, uh, my research seems to indicate that the problems could arise when there are inconsistencies between the various timelines."

Trunks blinked, his breath catching in his throat. "So my time-traveling is responsible for the problem?" He shook his head, his eyes widening at the possibility that his attempts to save his world had actually doomed it. A deep dread began to build in his chest; Trunks tried to swallow, but his throat suddenly felt both tight and dry.

"Not necessarily," Bulma said, placing a reassuring hand upon Trunks' arm. "The existence of an inconsistency isn't enough. There also has to be some other element, some sort of...I don't know. Destabilizing trigger."

Trunks' panic began to recede, though Bulma's statement left his curiosity piqued. "Trigger? Like what?"

"That's where I'm stuck," Bulma said, turning back to her computer screen and resuming the process of scrolling trough screens upon screens of data. "There are a couple of theories here, but there is no way to know what's correct. It could be someone intentionally manipulating the timestream, but I don't know how they could do it, especially if you're in possession of the only time machine."

"So that's one theory," Trunks said with a nod. "What else?"

"It comes up a couple of times in these files that magical energy could be such a trigger, but with the Dragonballs gone from your world, I'm not sure what that source would be."

Trunks raised an eyebrow. "Might that be the problem? The fact that the Dragonballs do exist here, but don't exist in my world?"

"No," Bulma said, shaking her head. "See, if that were the case, your world wouldn't be the one having problems. Ours would. I think the trigger, whatever it is, only destabilizes the realm it originates in."

"That makes sense," Trunks said, though there wasn't much conviction in his voice. This sounded like a lot of speculation, and while he did not doubt that his mother was vigilant in her research, he wondered just how many sources she was able to pull information from. Or how reliable those sources are.

The large digital clock mounted on the opposite wall suddenly caught Trunks' attention. He looked to his left, amazed at how much time had already passed. Between poring over the data his mother had compiled and training with his younger self, much of the day had managed to fly by without Trunks really noticing. It was already one in the afternoon.

Ah, crap. Trunks placed two fingers on his right temple, curing his own carelessness. This was becoming an unfortunate habit of his, losing track of time so easily. He'd meant to come to speak to his mother much sooner—he had promised to be at Gohan's place at around two. Now he would almost certainly be delayed—it was an hour's flight to East Keio University, and he felt that he should spend at least some time offering Bulma assistance, however valuable that assistance may be.

Bulma must have noticed his antsiness, because she turned away from the computer screen to address him again. "Something wrong?" She saw his fretful glances as her large clock, and raised a single aqua-colored eyebrow. "Are you running late for something?"

"I kind of promised I'd swing by Gohan's place," Trunks said hesitantly, "but if you need my help—"

"Oh, go!" Bulma said enthusiastically, cutting him off. "Trust me, if I need anything, I'll let you know."

"Are you sure?"

Bulma wagged one finger at him. "Sweetie, listen to your mother. There's no point in both of us spending the whole day locked up in here. Now get!" She pointed toward the door of her lab, shooing Trunks away. Trunks shot her a grateful smile as he left.

"So what have you been up to?"

It was an innocent question, but Trunks felt that the answer would be a bit complicated. Though Trunks had seen Gohan less than a full day before, it seemed that significantly more time had passed. Trunks idly wondered if perhaps all of his time-traveling had skewered his perception of minutes and hours, or if it was simply a product of the exhaustion and frustration brought on by his failed attempts at finding any useful information. The last few days had been rough, and each scientific dead-end was more exasperating than the last. More than that, over the past day, he had learned more than he expected to about both his father's capabilities and his own. So Trunks had to think for a minute before answering Gohan's casual query.

"Not a whole lot," Trunks finally responded, albeit somewhat untruthfully. He flopped down onto Gohan's well-used sofa. "A little training. Lots of waiting. I offered to help my mom in the lab, but I don't think there's much I can do."

"Fair enough," Gohan said, joining the other demi-Saiyan on the couch. He had wanted to ask what, precisely, had caused Trunks admittedly short-lived breakdown, but now that he was actually conversing the other boy, he wasn't sure how to bring it up. He truly didn't want to pry, but his concern had been gnawing at the back of his mind for the better part of the previous day.

Before Gohan could think of a suitable way to pose the question, however, Trunks spoke up. "So," the younger boy began, "Trunks told me that my father ascended a few years back."

"Yeah, he did," Gohan said, wondering where this sudden shift in the conversation was leading them. "Not surprising."

"And Goku?"

"My dad underwent some pretty radical training in the afterlife," Gohan explained. He smiled, remembering the first time he had seen his father after his death during the Cell Games. Even considering the fact that Goku had been training nonstop for seven years, the increase in his power had been astounding. "He's actually discovered a level beyond that. he calls it Super Saiyan Three."

"Super Saiyan Three?" A thoughtful, distant expression came over Trunks' features as he gazed off toward the window at his left. "Man. I can't keep up with any of you guys now."

"Hey," Gohan said, hoping he sounded more reassuring than patronizing, "we've had ten years. Sounds like you've had closer to ten months."

"I guess so." Trunks paused, drawing a deep breath. "Still. I didn't think those heights were possible."

"Yeah, that's Saiyan blood for you. Limitless potential. The longer they fight, and the fiercer the enemy—"

"The stronger they become. I know."

"Right." Gohan wasn't sure what to say next, but he did not have the time to contemplate that matter for long. There was a sharp knock on Gohan's front door, followed by the light jangling of keys. He didn't have to open the door to know who was there; Videl was the only person to whom Gohan had given a copy of his keys, and she essentially had free license to swing by at her leisure. Gohan stood from his seat, and Trunks followed suit as the door opened.

"Hey," Videl said, pushing open the door with one shoulder as she game in holding a pile of binders in both arms. She didn't look up, instead focusing on balancing the various notebooks in her arms and shutting the door with her foot. "Hope you're not busy. I brought over those notes I bor…" Videl trailed off as she looked up, seeing Trunks for the first time. "Oh, I didn't realize you had company. Hi, I'm Videl."

"Oh," Trunks said, sounding startled as he extended one hand. I'm—"

"Just a family friend who's in town!" Gohan blurted out. Videl knew the eleven-year-old Trunks; the last thing he needed was for Videl to learn about time travel and subsequently have one of her legendary freakouts. "Yep, this is, uh, Pikkon." Gohan scrambled for the first name he could think of, and came upon a name that Goku had mentioned more than once in his tales about training and fighting in the afterlife. Gohan ignored the confused look Trunks gave him

Videl moved inside and bent down to set the binders on the low coffee table. She extended her right hand—adorned, as always, with those fingerless black gloves of which she was so fond—and peered thoughtfully at Trunks. "You look kind of familiar, Pikkon."

"I . . . guess I just have one of those faces," Trunks said. It wasn't much of an explanation, but it would have to do. Gohan was relieved that Trunks was playing along, but between the long violet ponytail and his angular facial features, Gohan sincerely doubted that there were many people in the world that Trunks truly resembled.

Videl seemed to have the same thought. She pulled back her hand, looking up at Trunks' face and furrowing her eyebrows. "Uh huh," she said with unconcealed incredulity. "How long are you in town, Pikkon?"

Trunks looked at Gohan before answering. "A few weeks, I think. It's...kind of indefinite for now."

"Uh huh," Videl repeated, looking back at her boyfriend. Gohan shot her a nervous smile, causing Videl to roll her eyes as she left. "Okay, I'm going to head back to my place." She gave Gohan a pointed look before walking up to him and standing on the very tip of her toes to give him a kiss on the cheek. "I'll be back later tonight," she said, and Gohan couldn't help but notice the lingering suspicion in her voice. "It was nice to meet you, Pikkon," she said, putting a sharp emphasis on Trunks' assumed names before exiting the apartment.

Trunks waited until the door shut behind her to speak again. "Okay, what was that about? And who the hell is Pikkon?" Trunks didn't sound angry or stern so much as deeply confused.

"A friend of my father's from the otherworld," Gohan said, bearing the same nervous smile he had just given Videl. "And I'm sorry about that. She knows you as a kid. I didn't want to freak her out too much."

Trunks raised an eyebrow. "How much does she know? Does she know you're a Saiyan?"

"Oh, she knows all that. We've been dating for three years. She's met the whole gang. And she knows all about the Dragonballs."

"Gohan," Trunks said, a ghost of laugh bubbling in his voice, "if she can handle the fact that you're half-alien, and that you defeated Cell when you were nine, I think she can wrap her head around something like time travel."

Gohan sighed. "You're probably right. It's just...we were dating for a while before I filled her in on all the details. The fact that my dad was sent here as a baby, the trip to Namek, Freiza. I guess I've just been wary of piling on too much information at once."

Trunks nodded. "I can understand that." He shot Gohan a sly grin. "She's cute, man. Well done."

Gohan bit his lower lip to keep from laughing. "Yeah, you'd never know she was Mr. Satan's daughter."

Both of Trunks' eyebrows shot up into his forehead. "The 'world champion'?" Trunks used his index and middle fingers to gesture air-quotes. "The bearded buffoon who spent the better part of the Cell Games making an idiot of himself? That Mr. Satan?"

"That's the one," Gohan said with a smile. "All kidding aside, he's not so terrible."

"Sure." Trunks sighed to himself, sounding incredulous.

Gohan chuckled. Trunks—this Trunks, anyway—didn't strike him as the kind of person who would typically insult a man behind his back. He could understand the sentiment, though. Mr. Satan may have been a decent guy once Gohan had gotten to know him, but the popular hero did not exactly make a brilliant first impression.

"He's really not a bad guy once you get to know him," Gohan insisted around a soft laugh.

"If you say so." Trunks rolled his eyes. "I'm going to assume she takes after her mother."

"I wouldn't know," Gohan said, rather solemnly. "Her mom died of a brain tumor when Videl was just a kid. I've never met her."

"Oh." Trunks looked down sadly. "I'm sorry to hear that." An uncomfortable, almost melancholy silence fell upon the two boys. Gohan wondered whether it was simply that Trunks was caught off guard by the unfortunate news, or if it were something deeper. After all, both teenagers knew what it meant to lose a parent, and how devastating that loss could be. It was an unfortunate point of commonality between Videl and the two half-Saiyans.

"But, yeah," Gohan said in a lighthearted tone, trying to restore the bright mood of their conversation. "Mr. Satan's actually a pretty nice guy. And, believe it or not, he really helped out my dad and Vegeta when they were fighting Buu."

"You're serious?" Trunks said, looking back up at Gohan.

"Well, people can surprise you. With Vegeta for a dad, I'd think you of all people would know that."

Trunks smiled a bit at that. "Yeah," he said, giving Gohan a meaningful glance. "I guess they can."

This was no ordinary game of hide-and-seek.

Trunks was eleven years old, and Goten almost ten, far too old for such simple and childish games as hide-and-seek. But this was a training exercise as much as it was a game. The young heir's father had berated him on more than one occasion for his lack of discipline and concentration, and had criticized the boy for relying too much on his eyesight and not focusing on developing his other senses and skills. The boy couldn't help it—he may have been the successor to a long line of Saiyan warriors, but he was also a child, a mischievous and easily distracted child with little interest in strict drills.

So, several months back, Trunks had come up with this game, hoping that it would keep his interest longer than rote drilling. He would hide in the woods, shielding himself within the thick brush and suppressing his ki. Then, for just a split second, he would raise his energy levels to rather great heights before reigning in his power once again. The other player would use these momentary spikes in power to seek out the hider, hoping to use his ability to sense energy to compensate for the lack of visibility in the dense foliage. Each round, the seeker would keep track of the time it took him to find the other boy; whoever had, at the end of the game, the fewest minutes on his timer would be declared the winner. The benefits of such a game were twofold—the hider would get practice powering up and down very quickly, as was so often necessary in battle, while the seeker could hone his skills in sensing energy on a split-second basis. Once Trunks had thought of this brilliant "game," he had shared the idea with Goten, who was completely enthusiastic about the notion of having yet another training game to engage in.

Of course, that was nothing new. Goten was always the enthusiastic sort.

Trunks allowed his power to spike quickly before suppressing it once again and running, taunting Goten with clues to his location. He could sense Goten approaching him, seeking him through the trees above. Trunks suppressed a small giggle; Goten's ability to sense energy was admittedly more honed than Trunks', but the other boy just didn't have the Briefs heir's strategic mind. Sure, Goten could sense Trunks, but he couldn't think like Trunks. And that was where the older boy had the advantage. He knew Goten inside out and backwards, and won the vast majority of the time they played this game.

The child grinned to himself as he ducked behind a particularly thick bush. One person he hadn't been able to get such a read on was his older self. He'd never fought anyone quite like this "future Trunks," and had been pleasantly surprised to find that he actually couldn't predict the teenager's every move. The boy appreciated the change of pace. Goten had become much stronger over the past few years, but their sparring frequently fell into a familiar pattern, and more often than not their matches ended in a draw. And yes, Trunks loved training with Vegeta, but practicing with the same master day in and day out could get a bit boring.

The violet-haired boy blinked, suddenly sensing an approaching power level. He had zoned out for a few seconds there, and tuned back just a moment too late. Before he could escape, he was tackled to the dirty ground by his best friend.

Goten powered down and stood, releasing Trunks from his grip. "Two minutes," Goten said as he clicked off the stopwatch that hung around his neck. "That's my best time so far."

"I was distracted," Trunks declared, brushing himself off as he stood up. He realized immediately how harsh and dismissive his words must have sounded, and caught the crestfallen look that came across Goten's face. "Hey," he said, sounding much friendlier, "you still did good. You're supposed to take advantage when your enemies get distracted." Trunks nodded with conviction, recalling the advice that his father had drilled into him since he began his training. His encouragement seemed to do the trick; Goten brightened instantly

Honestly, Goten could be so sensitive sometimes.

Trunks covered both eyes with his hands. "Are you gonna go hide or not?"

"Yeah!" Goten said. Trunks immediately felt his power level drop to the point where it was barely perceptible, even lower than a normal human's. Within seconds, Trunks couldn't feel Goten at all. He heard the crunching of fallen twigs below Goten's feet, but a moment later even that light sound disappeared from Trunks range of hearing.

Trunks smiled as he began to count to twenty. "One, two, three, four..."

Thoughts of home, of his father, and of his strange teenaged self could wait. He had a game to win.