This chapter is dedicated to all of my lovely reviewers. You guys are amazing!

Disclaimer: Until I take over the world, I will not own Dragon Ball Z. I am currently welcoming applicants into my army. Current manpower: 1.2 people.

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Chapter Four: Generation Gap

Seventeen glared.

He glared at the skyscrapers towering around him.

He glared at the people weaving to and fro throughout the city.

He glared at the pigeons chirping happily in the nearby cherry tree. Stupid winged rats. He was sorely tempted to disintegrate them with a blast from his energy pistol.

He didn't.

He wasn't sure why, though.

Seventeen growled in annoyance. He was surrounded by things that had no right to exist. Furthermore, his internal tracking system finally realized that, and reacted by giving of an incredibly obnoxious and persistent internal warning that a system malfunction was occurring.

If only, if only.

As his eyes locked on to various civilians, his software displayed their names, ages, and other pertinent information. Over the past half-hour, Seventeen had come across eighteen people the system deemed 'alive,' five hundred seventy-two deemed 'deceased,' and one hundred twenty-eight on which no data could be found. The latter group consisted entirely of teenagers and children.

So here Seventeen sat, on a park bench surrounded by apparent zombies and phantoms, in the midst of a city that had long ago been blown up.

He tried to figure out what to do. Pointless destruction no longer seemed viable due to the fact that the real Trunks would show up sooner or later. No need to make himself a more obvious target.

Thinking of Trunks brought to mind the other Trunks that Seventeen had encountered a couple of days earlier. He had deemed him pseudo-Trunks. Pseudo-Trunks looked nearly identical to normal Trunks. Physically, that is. Mentally, well, that was a different story.

Over the years, Seventeen had learned to detect all the subtle nuances of human emotions. He especially liked the ones he incited: panic, rage, sorrow, hopelessness, fear... Since the androids' arrival, these had been permanent fixtures in the minds of the humans.

Trunks was no exception. His eyes were Seventeen's favorite thing about him. They exuded hatred and pain. More subtly, they showed fear and helplessness. Trunks' eyes confirmed that humanity was at its breaking point, teetering on the verge of utter chaos.

Pseudo-Trunks was completely different. His eyes showed narcissism, arrogance, satisfaction, and happiness.

That, Seventeen decided, was not near as interesting. He would have to fix that.

Since his arrival and his meeting with pseudo-Trunks, Seventeen had been wandering around aimlessly. He had flown for hours, trying to convince himself that this place was the same physically as the one he had left. Landmarks, islands, whole continents were exactly the same. The cities that covered them were even more numerous than they had been when he and his sister had arrived.

After returning to West City, he sulked for awhile, eventually finding his way to the park bench on which he was now seated.

Well, at least pseudo-Trunks offered a distraction. A purpose in mind, Seventeen set off to find his archenemy. He had no clue what he'd do when he found him, but that was neither here nor there.

He began to walk towards the garden where he had last encountered the Saiyan whelp. He opted not to fly because the humans stared whenever he did that.

He did not like being stared at.

As he neared the garden, he became aware of the massive amounts of ki radiating outward from his destination.

He froze. It would be safer just to walk away. On the other hand, he really wanted to know who was generating that ki. He could tell that it originated from two people within the garden. As of last week, the only person capable of producing any discernable ki was Trunks.

So who was the other person?

Seventeen hopped gracefully over the imposing fence, alighting without a sound. He made his way silently over to where the ki was coming from, remaining hidden. He could hear noises that indicated that a fight was taking place.

This is what he saw:

Pseudo-Trunks was decked in full battle raiment, the traditional blue Saiyan armor favored by various fighters Seventeen had encountered in the past. The boy was powered up to full strength, blond hair defying gravity as if to proclaim that Trunks was more powerful than the forces of nature themselves.

He looked like the superhero the real Trunks wished he could be. He stood proud, facing an opponent whose back was to Seventeen. Trunks had never managed to possess that sort of composure against him and his sister.

Trunks' opponent was slightly shorter in stature. He too was wearing Saiyan armor, exuding the same air of confidence. Seventeen noticed with interest that the challenger's hair was also spiky and blond.

From what Seventeen could tell, the fight had not been going on for long. Neither man had worked up a sweat, nor even wrinkled their clothing. No, Seventeen arrived just in time to see the show.

Trunks made the first move, rushing towards his opponent while emitting a wholly unnecessary battle cry. Seventeen firmly believed that theatrics should be reserved for when your opponent was lying on the ground, begging for his or her life. Much more entertaining.

Much to Seventeen's, and evidently Trunks', surprised, the other fighter dodged the attack with ease. Never making a sound, he brought his knee up and rammed it into Trunks' back. The boy let out a grunt of pain, but reeled around and aimed a kick at the other man's head. The latter grabbed his leg and hurled him into the air, taking off behind him.

Thus the battle became airborne. The kicking and punching that ensued were difficult to follow, but one thing was certain:

Trunks was losing.

In desperation, he fired a ki blast at his attacker, who quickly dodged, taking the momentary opening as a chance to knock Trunks back to the ground. As Trunks crashed to the earth, the other man followed, slamming into Trunks full-force. Trunks coughed up blood.

The challenger, seeing that he had won, stood up, kicking the boy as he rose. He spoke for the first time. "Hmph! Pathetic, boy. You are a disgrace to your Saiyan heritage; you spend so much time pretending to be human that you've forgotten how to fight!" With that the other left contemptuously, but not before Seventeen caught a glimpse of his face:

Vegeta.

Opting to deal with the whole I-killed-that-guy-so-why-is-he-still-here thing later, Seventeen decided to take a risk; he revealed his presence to Trunks.

He strolled out of his hiding spot and approached the boy lying, groaning in pain on the ground. It brought back memories.

Trunks as a twelve-year-old, lying whimpering on the ground. Despite his best efforts, tears streamed down his face. Seventeen laughed.

Trunks a couple of years later. Even with all of his training, he was no match for Seventeen. Once again he was beaten into the ground. More cold, heartless laughter.

Eighteen falling to the ground lifeless before him. Trunks looking on without pity. This time, there was no laughter.

Steeling himself, Seventeen knelt down next to Trunks. "Are you alright?" he whispered, feigning concern.

Trunks opened his eyes, looking at Seventeen without recollection. "Huh?" His words are slurred, accompanied by a cough that brought more blood trickling down his cheek.

Seventeen sighed. Trunks was not allowed to die until Seventeen had successfully exacted his revenge. He looked the boy over. He had no severe external wounds, but judging from the blood dripping from his mouth, he was suffering from heavy internal bleeding.

Being unfamiliar with the treatment of human wounds, Seventeen decided it would be best to bring him inside and let the other humans deal with it.

Lifting Trunks gingerly, Seventeen noticed that Trunks had passed out. He shook his head in bemusement, wandering the way he remembered going last time.

One thing was certain: Pseudo-Trunks was a great deal weaker that the real Trunks.

Upon entering the building, Seventeen paused, uncertain of where to go. He chose a hallway at random and began wandering down it. He arrived at a dead end, confronted by a door. "Do Not Disturb," it proclaimed.

Seventeen did not take orders from doors. He rapped loudly on the door, and was rewarded with the sound of footsteps approaching on the other side. A woman's voice rang out, slightly muffled by the door. "This better be important! I'm on the verge of an important breakthrough…" As the door opened, the speaker trailed off.

It was Bulma Briefs, Trunks' mother. Seventeen had killed her before departing in the yellow not-spaceship, but no one else had stayed dead. Why would she?

For a moment, Seventeen was worried that she had recognized him. Luckily, that was not the case; she was merely stunned into silence by her son's comatose state.

That lasted all of two seconds. "TRUNKS!" she screamed. "MY BABY! Oh, what happened?!" She dragged Seventeen into the room, ushering him towards a couch shoved in the corner. Hustling off to call a doctor, she left Seventeen alone with the unconscious Saiyan. Seventeen deposited him unceremoniously onto the couch. He took advantage of the moment of solitude to inspect his surroundings.

He was instantly reminded of the laboratory where he had searched for a spaceship. While this room was a great deal larger, it was filled with the same sort of scribblings and half-finished inventions. Some things never change.

Bulma hurried back into the room, accompanied by a team of doctors. The doctors immediately set upon Trunks, shoving Bulma and Seventeen out of the lab as they began to work.

Bulma stared at Seventeen, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "Wh… What happened?" she croaked, voice hoarse due to worry and fear. He weighed his response carefully in his mind. What to say? "I don't know," he said hesitantly. "I was walking past the park in the back of the building and I noticed him, lying there. He seemed like he needed help, so I hopped the fence to check on him. When I saw the extent of his injuries, I decided he needed medical attention. So I came in here looking for a doctor."

The lies rolled smoothly off his lips. He could have told the truth, but he didn't feel like it. That would bring up the question of why he hadn't stepped in before Trunks had been maimed. Besides, Seventeen doubted that Bulma would have been happy knowing that her husband beat her son into a coma.

She sniffled, a single tear escaping down her cheek. "Thank you," she said quietly, wiping furiously at her eyes. "I'm sorry, I've forgotten my manners. I'm Bulma Briefs. And you are?" She offered a trembling hand to Seventeen. He clasped it gently and replied, "My name is Akira. It's a pleasure to meet you, but I wish the circumstances had been more favorable."

Bulma gave a watery smile. "Well, I owe you, Akira. Can I get you anything?" Seventeen shook his head. "No ma'am. But I'd like to wait here until he wakes up, if you don't mind."

"Of course you may." Bulma was glad that such a caring person had happened upon her precious Trunks when he was in trouble.

Seventeen settled into a chair outside the lab to wait as Bulma went in to check on the doctors' progress.

He smirked. His histrionic abilities amazed even him sometimes.

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-Shadow