Cross-posted from AO3

Warning: This is fundamentally a character study for Future Gohan and the future androids. The dynamics and effects of sexual coercion (no explicit content) are the premise used to explore that (specifically the questions of agency and bodily autonomy). No pairing was marked because despite the sex, the relationship is not a pairing, it's a dynamic.

While I drew from different canons (Japanese- and English-language animes, manga, etc.), the DBZ: Kakarot Warrior of Hope DLC (English dub) is the main source for several details, especially Seventeen's and Eighteen's dynamics with Gohan.

Sorry to Universe 7's MVP. This is another timeline.


"Don't give up so fast, Gohan. I'm sure you've got another ten minutes in you."

"Just look at him, Seventeen. We'll be lucky if we get five."

Gohan is good at losing.

He has been mastering the strategy since he was four. You take the hits, you go down, you get back up. You do that, over and over, muscle and sinew and blood and bone, until you can't anymore. It buys time: then, for Piccolo or Krillin to come up with a clever strategy, for Vegeta to get stronger, for his father to arrive and change everything.

Now, it's enough for Gohan to just get a few people out alive.

Always a bit of a pain digging himself out from under buildings, though. Before his lungs can start choking on the dust of catastrophe, he has to deal with the former skyscraper bearing down on his chest.

"Fighting this guy is getting stale." Even under buildings, he can always pick out their voices. Eighteen's familiar flat cruelty strikes lower and more directly than her counterpart. "Let's just end this and get rid of the rest of the humans here."

"Hey," Seventeen says. "Fighting is what he's good for—well. He's okay for it. What are we going to do, game with him?"

Seventeen raises his voice to call through concrete, like he's being considerate. Asshole. "Hey, Gohan. Tell me how your gaming is."

Gohan braces his hands against buckled steel and plaster and tries to steady his lungs. Forcing his ki through his arms, he manages to lift the weight from his chest.

"Seriously? With you two around?"

"Okay," Seventeen answers, "Not good at video games either. Maybe you'd give a decent fight in Go."

A hundred little flames of life still burn in the city. Most are fading quickly—people under the rubble, not alive, just not-yet-dead. Gohan can't do anything for them.

But there are a dozen or so making their way to the edge of the city—not strong signatures, but there's a chance for them, as long as the androids don't hunt them down.

Gohan can give them that chance.

Muscle, sinew, blood, bone. It's just about getting back up. Gohan inhales, centers himself, and pushes again. The wreckage rises—Gohan gets his feet under him. With a shift of his grip, he has the structure up in the air—throws himself to the side—out of the way as it falls back down where he just was.

Eighteen floats a foot above a collapsed department store sign. Seventeen perches on the edge of the twisted, broken glass of the facade.

They let him get to his feet. Gohan wipes blood from his mouth.

"I'm actually not half bad at Go," Gohan says.

"Figures," says Eighteen

"Yeah," Seventeen adds, "Kind of predictable, Gohan. And boring. What about sex?"

What?

Super Saiyan is almost startled out of him—Gohan reaches for the flame of his rage before the shock can snuff it out, catches that feeling and feeds it on memories both new and long held close—

"Holy shit," Eighteen says.

"Yeah," Seventeen continues. He shifts to rest his chin on his fist. "That'd kill some time. How about it?"

"Oh my God. That is insane. Just kill him."

"Nah, we can still have some fun with him. What do you say, Gohan? Let's hook up."

"You—" Gohan's hands twitch with a force he can barely control. Gohan recites a litany of dead friends, doesn't let his fighting stance falter. Piccolo would never tolerate a lapse.

He says, "You're my enemies. I'm going to kill you."

Eighteen usually laughs at his 'macho attitude.' She doesn't laugh today.

"Well," Seventeen says. "It'd be a chance to relax."

"So, you're saying, I—help you kill time. Or you'll kill me."

Seventeen doesn't use Eighteen's harshness. When he talks to Gohan, it's always with amused patience, like an older kid with a slow, useless tagalong.

"Gohan," he says. "We're going to kill you anyway."

Gohan clenches his fists until he feels blood.

Then Seventeen gets to his feet, perfectly balanced on the edge of the shattered store front. He stretches out an arm. "I'll sweeten the game. You like protecting these humans. I'll promise not to kill anyone for a couple of days."

Eighteen is suddenly right beside her partner. "What. You're kidding."

"We can find something else to do for a few days," Seventeen says.

"That is not the issue here."

"Then what's the problem?"

"You're unbelievable."

"Gohan doesn't think I'm unbelievable."

"Who gives a shit what he thinks? I think this is stupid."

Gohan says, "I want one month."

They both stop. As one, they turn pale blue eyes down to where he stands in the wreckage they have made.

They'll never agree to one month. It's too high. Seventeen is going to take the offer back and they can all pretend this never came up.

But it would be one month to train Trunks in safety. One month for Bulma to do her work without the threat of death from above.

They'll never, ever agree.

Seventeen's slight, cruel smile widens. "Look at you, Gohan. You're playing for keeps. One month?"

"In advance. You don't kill or hurt any humans for one month, in advance. You need to keep your side of the deal first."

"This is absolute bullshit, Seventeen," Eighteen cuts in. "Stop being disgusting."

"How am I being disgusting?"

"Eighteen can't hurt anyone either," Gohan adds. "Not one human, do you understand?"

Eighteen could scuttle the entire deal. She could refuse it—should refuse it. He knows she should. Is he failing as a protector for not being grateful for this chance?

A real protector wouldn't need to resort to making deals. A real protector would win.

Gohan hopes the eyes of Otherworld are turned away.

"You know what, Gohan?" Seventeen has glanced down at Gohan often enough over thirteen years. But this time is— "This is going to be an even better game than I thought."

On Namek, Gohan had been a footnote to Frieza, right until Frieza gored Krillin on a horn. Then the flip had switched—Frieza was in front of him, Krillin was in the water, and Frieza would not get out of the way.

So Gohan made him.

But Frieza rose up again, wiped the dirt from his face, and truly looked at Gohan for the first time since they crossed paths. And Gohan knew: he was going to die far, far from home.

Gohan can't move under Seventeen's gaze.

Then the attention drops into nothing as Seventeen turns to his partner. "Okay. Eighteen, let's go."

"You're kidding," Eighteen says. "We're not done here."

"A deal's a deal. I'm gonna go clear that new save on Big Larceny Vehicle IV. You can help."

Seventeen glances back at Gohan with his slight smile.

"North side of Poppy City. See you in a month, Gohan."

Then he's gone.

Arms crossed and lips furled in irritation, Eighteen lingers a moment, frowning at where Seventeen just stood. And then she looks down to Gohan. The expression she wears now is unfamiliar. Not half-bored disdain but hard, visceral, unmasked disgust.

Eighteen flies away.

Gohan stands in shattered concrete, still wreathed in the rage that Vegeta once believed would be the salvation of his people. The broken window where Seventeen had perched is frozen on the edge of collapse. A spiderweb of fractures, held by the weight of all the pieces interlocked. If someone touched it, it would remember itself and break.

Nearby, someone screams for help. People are still alive in the rubble.

And now, there is time to reach them.

"Hang on, I'm coming!"

Gohan spends the next hour and the last of his strength digging survivors out of the rubble as they wait for the emergency teams to arrive. They're badly wounded, on death's door, but if they make it to a hospital, they could survive this.

It feels like he is only saving them to die another day.


It isn't going to happen, obviously. Seventeen lacks the patience, and Eighteen isn't getting anything out of the deal. The androids will never keep their word.

Still. Gohan knows he needs a battle plan. The whole concept is—a risk. A risk he can't refuse to take, but a big one. Seventeen could kill him just because it would be an amusing final joke in the long farce that they've made of his life. Piccolo would have never put up with him walking into enemy territory outmatched and uncertain without even having a contingency.

So he goes to Bulma.

The remaining labs of Capsule Corp are less hidden than tucked out of sight. Gohan has been suggesting for years, as politely as he can, that Bulma could relocate somewhere a bit more distant from the main compound. But Bulma has been insistent: the things she needs are here, and the androids have already done damage to West City. They're only taking potshots at it now.

She has a point. Gohan would just feel a little more comfortable if she wasn't sitting under the most obvious target in what was once one of the biggest metropolises on Earth.

"Bulma? Do you have a minute?"

He walks cautiously through the mess of parts, tools, and unknown liquids that decorate the overlit floor of Bulma's workroom. From under a plate of curved yellow metal, Bulma sticks out her head.

"Gohan! Are you looking for Trunks?"

"For you, actually. Do you have a moment?"

Her eyes widen, and she immediately drags herself out from under her current project. She shoves her wrench into her tool belt and meets him halfway.

"What do you need, Gohan?"

Gohan pulls the manila folder (borrowed, he has to admit, from the abandoned admin rooms of Capsule Corp above ground) from under his arm and holds it out to her. Grease smears the cover where she takes it in hand.

"Huh," Bulma says. "So, can I look?"

He can't resist a small grin. "Would anything stop you?"

"Wow. Harsh, Gohan! I can respect a secret."

She immediately flips it open.

"It's for Trunks," Gohan explains. "Just a few things I thought he might need to know. Things about our mix that aren't really covered in the medicals, a few things Vegeta told me about himself or Saiyans that you might not have heard…"

Bulma is no longer looking at the folder. "Gohan. What are you doing?"

"There's some advice on training too," Gohan continues, "and on reaching Super Saiyan." He smiles at her. "For when you decide he's old enough to train."

"When I decide that, huh. And what do you think is old enough for training, Gohan?"

"I guess I'd say, younger than old enough for the battlefield."

The answer doesn't leave her impressed.

Gohan brightens his tone. "But—no reason to worry about that now. I'm not going to let anything happen to Trunks any time soon. It's what I'm here for."

Her knowing look softens. She never used to wear expressions like this when he was a kid. She shouldn't have to.

"You should have stayed short, like Vegeta." Bulma puts her other hand on top of his head. Grease is definitely going to get into his hair, but he just bends down to help her reach. "I think you're taller than your dad now."

"Not likely. My father was a giant."

"Come by for dinner more, okay? It's nice having you around."

"Are you sure about that, Bulma? You might not have a budget for wrenches if you get into the habit of feeding two Saiyan appetites."

"That's why you're going to catch the entrées with Trunks. Besides, it'll be good for you to spend more time together. Not like you have anything else to do together, right?"

Gohan laughs. "I'll try. Just keep these safe for me, okay? And thank you."

Gohan turns—speaking of dinner, he really should start hunting down his own right now—and starts back towards the exit. Work-tacky fingers catch around his wrist.

Gohan stops and looks back over his shoulder. Bulma meets his eyes.

"Be careful out there. Okay? We need you too."

She deserves better than this. He has to give her more time.

Gohan smiles. "I won't let you down."


"Maybe they just… died."

"Trunks."

With no fights to run to or recover from, Gohan has been able to increase the frequency of Trunks's training. The boy has thrived under the extra attention, progressing so quickly that Gohan has had to adjust his planned timetable for his lessons.

Super Saiyan remains out of reach. Gohan isn't surprised. But he lets Trunks try.

Trunks, sweat covered from his efforts and sprawled out on the beach at Gohan's side, nudges the dial of the radio. On this channel, as on all the others, there is only music and radio personalities, just as there has been for the past three weeks.

"Maybe their power ran out."

"Trunks."

"It's why they never get tired, right? So maybe—maybe it's not infinite, it's just that they run at full power until it's all gone. So maybe it finally ran out."

"That doesn't seem very likely."

"It could happen, though, right? They're machines. Machines can run out of power."

"Do your mother's machines run out of power?"

"Well, no," Trunks says, "but that's because she knows fuel is scarce so she makes it so they charge themselves by taking energy from their environment."

Then, he says, "Oh."

Sat up at Trunks's side, Gohan uncurls an arm from around his bent leg to give Trunks a proper pat on the head. The kid has a good head on his shoulders, and Gohan isn't going to begrudge him hope. He'll need it. But Gohan doesn't want to feed misplaced optimism.

"There was a time," Gohan says, "I think when I was around twelve, when they went dark for three months. No one knows why."

Gohan stops. Maybe—no. Head in the game.

He looks across at Trunks and taps him on his crown. "But they came back. Besides, what have we been doing all this training for? Are you really going to let bad engineering take your chance to defeat the androids from you?"

"Well." Trunks frowns, scrunched mouth and wrinkled nose. "If I had to, if it would end it, then yeah. But…"

"But what do you want, Trunks?"

Trunks takes another moment for thought. His eyebrows flatten, and his mouth sets in a line.

It's there, Gohan thinks. The fire. A rage that burns you like the surface of the sun.

"I want them to feel what they've made us feel." There's a full-moon beast under that voice. "I want to make them pay."

"And we're going to use that feeling. You're getting close, Trunks, I can tell. You just need more time."

Gohan gets to his feet, dusting the sand off of his gi. He extends his hand out to Trunks.

"Ready for round two?"

"Yeah. Definitely! Don't hold back on me, Gohan!"


There is an android attack on the outskirts of Saffron Town.

It comes through on the radio when Trunks is back in West City with his mother. Gohan couldn't be more grateful. He exhales—four weeks isn't long, but it was something—and makes the best time to Saffron that he can without wasting fighting energy.

It's a smaller town focused on agriculture and the processing of plant goods. The smoke that betrays android presence rises from the town's west outskirts. Gohan moves low, holding his aura close to hide Super Saiyan's glow, as he approaches the likely location against the current of the fleeing population.

The sound of metal being blown to bits heralds Android Seventeen, perched on top of an old farmhouse, taking potshots at empty cars. Eighteen is nowhere in sight. In the shadow of a silo, Gohan waits for her to reveal herself. She doesn't come.

So Gohan takes the best odds he has had in thirteen years.

Gohan drops in with a kick that sends Seventeen through splintered roof into hay-covered dirt. He follows on him quick with a rain of ki attacks. There's a low hum against the roar of fire—Seventeen's shield. Gohan dodges to the side just as an energy blast flies his way.

Then Seventeen is on the roof of the burning farmhouse. No damage. Gohan drops back to the silo and resumes a ready stance.

"Wow, Gohan." Seventeen tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear. "That's coming on a bit strong for you."

"Out here alone, Seventeen?"

"I finished my game early."

"Am I supposed to congratulate you?"

Seventeen is not making a move towards Gohan. The flames lick up the old and rotting building while heated metal and plastic from the cars toxify the air.

Seventeen says, "A month is a pretty long while to wait around. Playing with humans kills time."

This is an inhabited city. Gohan can feel every life that could be snuffed out here with a lazy wave of Seventeen's hand. If he doesn't do this right—

He can handle Seventeen on his own better than he does the pair. The people here would have a chance.

Gohan would have a chance.

"You wanna fight, Seventeen? Then let's fight. We'll see how well you do when the numbers are fair."

Seventeen's smile quirks. He hops from his farmhouse to land on Gohan's silo.

Gohan holds the distance with a backstep. He has spent thirteen years facing down that cold, implacable smile. He has never flinched from it.

Seventeen says, "Like I said. Fighting you got old years ago. I wanna try a new game."

That smile fixes him in place now.

No.

Gohan takes another step back.

"The deal was a month. Not four weeks."

"February is a month."

"Not what you agreed to, Seventeen."

"Right. But I'm bored now."

No. No, he—he attacked a city. Right? He attacked a city. Gohan gestures widely—bad move, an opening anyone would take, but he can't stop himself—back to burning cars and empty streets. "Too bad. You broke the deal."

"Check again, Gohan," Seventeen says. "No one got hurt."

No.

Gohan's mouth has gone dry. He doesn't lick his lips. He puts his hands back in ready position, just like Piccolo taught him, to catch or deflect any strike.

No one is dead. No one is dead.

Gohan rushes out, "Why should I trust you to keep your part of the deal if you can't even wait until the end of the term? You could kill people the second I follow through. Or Eighteen could."

"Well, yeah," Seventeen says. "You're going to have to take that risk anyway."

No.

This is an inhabited city. He cannot break this deal.

The androids' eyes are the blue of glacier water, still and shallow and so, so cold. Gohan searches them now for anything that would give ground.

If Gohan says no, Seventeen could act out. Gohan has gotten to know the androids well enough in a decade and change of having every bone in his body broken, and he knows they're immature at best and volatile at worst. Like a kid told he can't have the toy he wants, Seventeen could throw a town-massacring tantrum, and Gohan could only delay him for so long.

But if Gohan gives in now, Seventeen will know that Gohan can't hold him to a deal. And then what?

Gohan sets his expression. "One month. That's what the people of this world are going to get. Find a new video game."

Seventeen's focus narrows. Gohan is on Namek again, five and weak and earning the attention of the biggest monster in the galaxy.

"Procrastination's a bad habit, Gohan. Is that your final answer?"

Three more days. The best he can do for Earth is buy scraps at gouged prices. Then it will be over, and how much will it have been worth?

Three more days with his father would have meant everything.

"We made a deal, Seventeen. Break it or keep it. But I keep my word."

Seventeen gives him no reaction and no reply. Gohan paces his breaths like he was taught and does not let himself choke on poisoned air.

"Okay," Seventeen says. "Poppy City. See you."

He goes. The people of Saffron Town, unharmed, are left with a burned out old farmhouse, a few destroyed cars, and the terror of not knowing when the monsters will come back.

Gohan retreats to the Break Wastelands and tries to sleep.


Three days later, the sounds of 8-bit violence greet Gohan on his approach. Seventeen sits on a flipped over car, legs kicked over the edge and fingers occupied with an orange handheld.

"Hey, Gohan," he says. His thumb moves rapidly across the D-pad. He doesn't look up.

The car is in front of a capsule house. The patio is surrounded by a wealth of flowers. They're freshly watered.

Gohan's throat constricts.

"Whose house is this?"

"Don't know," says Seventeen. "Didn't catch the names.

"We had a deal."

"They can come back later, Gohan. I didn't hurt them."

People lived here, today. Gohan is taking their home from them. Gohan is taking it, and letting it be used, and it was their home.

They will never come back here.

"This is wrong," Gohan says.

"I can find somewhere else."

"No."

The handheld plays a short tune in a major key. Seventeen presses a button.

"Wow. Playing hard to get there."

He snaps the handheld shut.

"Don't worry. You've already got my attention."

Gohan could just leave.

Gohan could just leave.

He knows what monsters do when you try to take their fun away.

Seventeen says, "It's like a silent movie all of a sudden. Ready to go?"

Humidity keeps the air thick and hard to breathe in, even this late in the day. The sun bleeds out on this family's stolen home. Gohan cannot give it back to them.

His father would have kept his word. Even if it was to a monster.

Gohan is good at losing. You just take the hits until you can't.


"I didn't think any manufacturers of this kind of thing still existed. Do you make them yourself?"

There was no such thing as "the worst part" of their fight with Frieza. But Gohan thinks, more than he wants to, of the bright white of Frieza's tail wrapped around Vegeta's throat like an overfed tapeworm. Of how Vegeta did not resist, but gasped limp and hopeless through this final humiliation of his misused life. Of the way Frieza looked at Gohan and Piccolo and Krillin and invited them to intervene.

But they didn't.

"I thought the symbol was supposed to be your teacher's. Weird choice, Gohan."

And then, in a flash of orange and blue, his father was there. And he put his hand on Gohan's head, solid and warm, and told him he was proud of him for making it this far.

"Orange isn't really your color. It's more mine."

Then his father promised he would handle the rest of the fight.

"Earth to Gohan? Man. You should try Ritalin. If Big Pharma is still around."

Something touches Gohan's shoulder—Gohan blasts it on instinct and steps back. Seventeen, shrugging off the direct hit to his face, stands calm and still in the middle of this stranger's home with all his clothes back in place and not a hair disturbed by Gohan's attack.

He is holding Gohan's shirt, Turtle School orange, in his idle, curious hands.

"Don't touch that," Gohan says.

"A little late on that one."

Gohan looks flat at Seventeen. He holds his hand out.

"You're supposed to ask nicely," Seventeen says.

Gohan does not move.

Eventually, Seventeen shrugs and throws the shirt at Gohan's head. "You're so sensitive, Gohan."

Gohan's hands turn to fists in his shirt. He forces them to unclench and pulls it over his head.

"Anyway." Seventeen wanders over to the kitchen. It's open concept, with the oven embedded into the kitchen island. Seventeen plays with the dials. "What do you want to eat?"

Gohan stops. "What?"

"That's the part that comes next. Don't worry. I'll walk you through this too."

If Gohan punches him, Seventeen will just catch it or tank it, again, just like when—

"It isn't your food," Gohan says.

There's a painted wood bench in the front hall, with cubby holes for four pairs of shoes. Gohan sits on it to pull his boots on. His fingers can't quite manage the ties on his boots. He forces them to steady.

Seventeen hasn't come closer. Gohan's instincts tell him not to trust that empty space where a life should be.

They've been saying it for an hour now.

Stop.

"You were doing so well for a while," Seventeen says. "You could take the chance to win for once."

"We had a deal." Gohan wraps the tie around his left boot. Crosses it. Makes the loop. Ties it. "I followed through."

"You did. You're a real boyscout."

Wrap, cross, loop, tie. Gohan gets back to his feet. He does not want to see the look on that face.

"Good game, Gohan. Stay for food next time."

Gohan's head snaps towards Seventeen. Seventeen is leaning back against the kitchen island—and there it is, blue eyes tracking Gohan's reactions. Idly nudging to see what he gets. Just how he—

Stop.

Instincts say don't turn his back on the monster, but Seventeen has more than had his chance to kill Gohan, so what does it matter? Gohan crosses the hall over a paw-print doormat and grabs the door handle.

Only one city has been hit in a month, and that one barely. But anywhere you go, the acrid scent of burned rubber and shattered concrete still lingers.

He should go. He should take this chance. He needs to end this. He can't.

He can't do this again. Gohan turns the handle.

How long would it take for that smell to go away?

He can't be a pampered brat anymore. Is he going to protect this world or not?

Gohan lets the door handle go. Seventeen is still leaning back against the kitchen island. He is a blank space where Gohan should feel life, a cold and curious attention closing like fingers around Gohan's throat—

Stop.

Besides, he listened when Gohan knocked his hand away.

Gohan does not laugh uncontrollably. He grits his teeth, mouth shut tight, until the pain in his jaw grounds him in sinew and bone.

He says, firmly, "I want another month."

"Getting greedy, Gohan. But okay. I'll give you a week."

"I said a month."

"Right. And now you say something lower."

"Fine. Four weeks."

"So you have a sense of humor. Cute. But you'll have to go lower than that."

"It's your turn to counteroffer."

"One week."

"That isn't a counteroffer."

Seventeen pushes off from the kitchen island. He takes three steps into Gohan's space.

"You have to think about your strategy, Gohan." Blandly helpful. This is the part where you take your shirt off. "What do you think I'm willing to give you for what I'm going to get?"

Beyond Seventeen, on the fridge, there is a chaos of magnetic picture frames. The space is drowned in it, no art or order to the arrangement. At this distance, Gohan can't make out the details, but he knows it's a family. Scared out of their home, but still alive. For a few more weeks, Gohan can make sure they stay that way.

He has Piccolo's training. He knows how to take a hit.

"Two weeks," Gohan says. "Android Eighteen can't hurt anyone either."

"Well. Guess you'll know if the deal's off."

"And—no more stolen homes." Gohan meets Seventeen's eyes. He doesn't flinch. "Anywhere we meet better have been abandoned at least three months before you found it. I'm not doing this again."

Seventeen only smiles.

"A deal's a deal. East side of Purple City. See you soon, Gohan."


A/N: Huge thanks to amorekay for the developmental support and beta read. The question of what agency and bodily autonomy mean for a child soldier on one hand and a human experiment on the other really gripped me after I saw the summary of SombraSaiyan's The Wicked Contract. After spitballing at poor amorekay about the different roles that Seventeen, Eighteen, and Gohan might take, and how they would differently understand the situation, I ended up with too complete an outline to not follow through. The fic would not be the same, and probably would not have been written at all, without amorekay's support and suggestions.