Somewhere very far away, there's a little girl.

She's not in love with the stars.

They're pretty, yes, and she does like that about them. She's curious about what might be found so far from home, and what it might be like to travel there, but it's a passing fancy.

She doesn't dream up stories of spaceships and aliens like her sister. This little girl is in love with reality.

Reality is the screwdriver in her hand. It's the feel of metal beneath her fingertips. It's the living current of electricity that she carves a path for from circuit to circuit.

But sometimes she looks up at the stars, not to imagine stories, but to sketch the blueprints of her own adventures.

Until one night she looks up at the stars and sees one she'd never seen before.

And then another.

And another.

And every blueprint turns to ash.

The second Prince was not spoken of.

Trunks had never known the exact number of years between Vegeta and Tarble; by the time he met his uncle, the two brothers were well into their prime. It had been impossible to judge their difference in age.

Trunks wanted to think he'd mistaken the date. Assumed his uncle was already sent away by the time Trunks arrived. But a more honest part of him knew that he'd simply been too distracted with the absolute enormity of the mess of his life to stop to think about Tarble at all.

Until Vegeta strode into their training session with his little brother in tow.

Tarble was so small. Trunks knew that wouldn't really change: Tarble would never become tall or broad, even in adulthood. The boy before him couldn't have been more than four or five, just a few years younger than Vegeta.

He was half-hidden behind his older brother, who had settled into an even wider stance than usual. Vegeta was puffing his chest out and crossing his arms as if to dare Trunks to notice the small child he was very obviously shielding in protection.

"You will train both of us today," Vegeta announced boldly.

The words were enough to finally jar Trunks out of his shock. He looked between the two princes, older and younger, and saw a fierceness in Vegeta's features that he had never seen from his father where his brother was concerned.

"Is that so?" Trunks heard himself speaking on autopilot, some survival instinct to cover these moments of true what the fuck. He tried to shake off the sensation as he drew himself into focus. "Your friend looks a bit young to train, your highness."

That drew Vegeta's ire: his expression screwed up in offense, and his tail puffed up angrily about his waist. "He is not my friend. He is Prince Tarble of the House of Vegeta. He is my brother, and you will train him!"

Trunks looked back down at the little boy peeking out from behind the heroic wall of his older brother, and he heard the memory of his uncle's voice.

"I was weak."

Vegeta watched his trainer approach them slowly, until he stood directly before them. And then he watched as Trunks leaned over to bring himself closer — not to Vegeta, but to Tarble.

"Do you want to train with us, your highness?" Trunks asked Tarble with a gentleness in his voice that Vegeta was shocked to hear.

In his entire life, he had never heard such a gentle voice.

Vegeta felt Tarble's fingers curl up in the fabric at his hip as he clung. Tarble's tail was nudging at his, too, trying to get Vegeta's tail to unwind from his waist, but Vegeta glanced down at him with a quelling frown.

"He asked you a question, Tarble," he said, trying to keep himself restrained. Trying to not let the quiet anxiety inside of him leak out where either Trunks or his brother could see.

Tarble looked up at Vegeta with clear hesitation, and then looked to Trunks with obvious trepidation. Finally, in a small voice, he mumbled, "...don't like fighting."

The very sentiment made Vegeta flush with shame. His gaze snapped back to Trunks, ready to challenge him at the first sign of mockery or judgment. But he was struck — shocked — to instead see a soft, quiet sadness in his trainer's face.

"Not everybody does," Trunks said gently. "I know that it's very hard to be like that here. But it's okay. It's okay that you don't like fighting."

Vegeta had been prepared to defend his brother's honor, but this was beyond the pale. "It is not okay! It is not acceptable! No son of the House of Vegeta has ever—"

But Trunks was just looking at him. Of everything Vegeta expected to see in his face, it wasn't...this. This sympathy. This pity.

"He has to fight!" Vegeta could feel panic start to creep into his heart; this wasn't how he'd expected this to go. He turned to Tarble, his temper wild. "You have to fight. Tell him you want to fight!"

"Vegeta—" Trunks said gently.

"I am Prince Vegeta." He was screaming. He could hear himself screaming, but he couldn't stop. "You swore me an oath. You have to do as I say."

Trunks fell silent. Vegeta had grown accustomed to his trainer's scrutiny, but there was a weight in his gaze now that was more exhausted than usual. Carved out from the inside. Vegeta only stopped screaming to will him into submission.

"I can't train someone who doesn't want to be trained," Trunks finally said. He had the strangest expression that Vegeta couldn't understand. As if Trunks were somehow as upset — as helpless — as Vegeta felt.

"Has my father spoken to you?" Vegeta asked with sudden suspicion. "Has he said something about Tarble?" He didn't know what his father might have said; he only knew that the whispers surrounding his brother were deafening. He only knew that something was undeniably wrong.

"No," Trunks said, weary in the face of the tempest of Vegeta's fury. "No, he hasn't. He's never spoken of your brother to me." His voice flattened. Hardened. Vegeta didn't understand the sharpness, but he preferred it to the alternative. It was more familiar than softness.

Trunks looked past Vegeta to Tarble once more, still hidden behind his brother's leg. He studied the small boy for a long time in silence, before he seemed to come to some resolution.

"Training doesn't have to just be about fighting." A quiet warmth lit his features. "Have you learned how to fly yet?"

Tarble peeked at him from behind Vegeta's leg and smiled shyly.

Tarble knew something was wrong with him.

He wasn't quite sure what it was. He knew it had something to do with fighting, because his brother kept talking about it and trying to make him fight more. But he didn't understand why he had to. He wanted to make his brother happy, but he didn't like doing the things his brother wanted him to do.

When he realized that he was going to be meeting his brother's trainer, Tarble felt himself fill to the brim with excitement. He didn't like training, but he liked people. And everyone talked about his brother's trainer like he was strange and different, too. It made Tarble want to meet him.

Tarble was nervous, but he knew his brother would protect him. He told him his trainer's name was Trunks, and then Trunks talked to Tarble, and his voice was different from everyone else Tarble had ever met.

His voice was gentle. And when he asked if Tarble wanted to train, for the first time it sounded like it was okay to say no.

It made him brave enough to say yes.

Tarble didn't understand everything Trunks said to him at first. He talked about ki and energy and feeling things, and no one had ever talked to Tarble about those things before. But he didn't make Tarble try to fight, and he thought maybe Vegeta was a little happier. So he kept trying.

Vegeta didn't bring him to training every single day, even though Tarble wanted him to. But whenever his brother did come to get him, Trunks would smile at him, and toss him into the air, and talk to him like everything was okay.

Trunks was patient every time Tarble didn't understand something he said. Sometimes Tarble would watch Trunks train his brother, and sometimes it looked like they were mad at each other. But Trunks still felt different from other people who got mad.

And then, one day, he felt something inside of him. He felt the thing that Trunks had been talking about for weeks or months — Tarble wasn't sure how long it was — and it was like he had a little star glowing inside of him.

He could make the star glow brighter. He could make the star lighter. And when it felt lighter, it meant that he was lighter, and then he could go—

up.

Trunks had long ago grown accustomed to thinking of his uncle as weaker than most other fighters he knew. He had also grown accustomed to thinking of ki only as power. Only as a vector to battle.

But as he watched this small boy lift himself from the ground for the first time in his life, and saw the contagious warmth of his smile and laughter, Trunks was suddenly overcome with a wave of nostalgia and regret.

How much do we lose by thinking all of this is only about fighting?

"Vegeta, watch!" Tarble was unsteady in the air, still thinking in terms of a physical balance that no longer applied. But even as he wobbled, he rose another few inches, and then he zoomed up — before lurching to the side and ending up in a tumble back on the ground.

But he was laughing.

Trunks smiled as he watched him. "You know, he's still much stronger than pretty much anyone born where I'm from," he said to Vegeta. But then he looked over to see Vegeta's expression, and the conflict of it silenced him. Vegeta watched his brother with some messy mix of embarrassment, anger, disdain — and maybe, very small and covered by all the rest, the tiniest hint of envy.

"This is not how Saiyans learn to fly," Vegeta complained as he watched Tarble take to the air again.

Trunks's brows lifted with curiosity. His father had never mentioned anything about this. "How do they learn?"

But Vegeta was reticent to answer. "We just do," he scoffed, as if Trunks were foolish for even asking such a question. But Trunks kept watching him until Vegeta finally relented enough to say, "I taught myself. I kept jumping off of the balcony until I could fly." Vegeta's frown deepened as he watched his brother. "It is not a game."

Trunks finally looked back to the small boy tumbling about the air, laughing with a joy that Trunks had almost forgotten existed. In his few years on Vegetasei, he hadn't heard joy like that. "It can be," he said simply. "I know that you all don't put much value on anything other than fighting, but there's a lot of other things people can be good at."

Vegeta's hands tightened into fists. "There's only one thing it matters to be good at." But Tarble flew over to him, bobbing in the air, and reached down for his brother. And, after a long moment, Vegeta lifted his hands to close them around Tarble's.

The visits were unpredictable. Gine didn't really understand what Trunks wanted or needed from her; maybe it was just the fact that she'd helped him, and she was there. Bardock was out on assignment more often than not, and now Raditz was starting to go out on missions, too.

At least she still had one of her boys around.

Gine dragged her forearm across her damp brow; butchery did not require the sort of strength that combat did, but a long day of it was still enough to weary a Saiyan of her middling strength. Many of the soldiers would have found it mindlessly monotonous, but something about the practicality appealed to her.

It was a little like taking care of people.

Trunks's strange ability to conceal his power meant that no one on Vegetasei ever saw him coming. He'd just appear one moment without warning or notice, this strange offworlder with his curious hair and his eerie strength.

"Hello."

At least she'd stopped nearly taking her fingers off with the butcher knife whenever he showed up.

"Oh! Trunks, hello." Gine smiled at him over her shoulder. "Are you visiting? I don't have too much longer to work. Bardock and Raditz are off-world, though."

"That's fine." His smile was faint. Distracted. "I'll wait."

An hour later, Gine found him outside. She watched him go through a routine that felt both familiar and foreign: it was clearly training of some sort, some method of keeping himself sharp and honed, but it was nothing like the sparring and hunting Saiyans were more apt to pursue. There was a diligence and discipline that felt so alien to her.

They returned to her home, and Gine dug up some drinks and some meat, the way she'd grown accustomed to for his rare and random visits. "People are still talking about the prince's first moon," she told him.

His smile was subtle. "It was an...interesting night."

"Now people are talking about you," she continued. "Swearing fealty to him."

Trunks made a quietly thoughtful noise. "Word gets around, huh." He looked down at his cup, studying its contents, and then lifted it to sip. "Do they talk about the second prince?"

The question startled her. Gine's brow furrowed as she tried to relax the instinctive tension that had crept up her spine; she knew that Trunks was asking as an outsider, not interrogating her. "It's…not something people generally want to be heard talking about," she finally said, choosing her words with care.

Trunks pursed his lips and nodded in understanding. "I know that some of you aren't soldiers, but I'm guessing that's not exactly considered acceptable for the royal family."

"No," Gine agreed simply. "It's good that it was the second prince, at least. If he'd been the oldest, he likely would have been dealt with when he was born."

It wasn't an idea that rested easy with her, but something about seeing Trunks's reaction made all of it heavier. It wasn't shock on his features, but she could see horror and disgust in his face, despite his clear efforts to restrain his reaction.

She suddenly thought of Kakarot. No one expected much of him — but she and Bardock were hardly notable, either. No one expected much of any of them.

She thought about a world where someone keyed in some commands on a terminal and her son died. Useless. Defective.

Gine drew in a deeper breath as she shook away the thoughts, suddenly cognizant of the fact that Trunks was watching her.

"Are you okay?"

She twisted her mouth into a smile. "I'm fine," Gine said. "It's not an easy part of our world. But the royals have it worse than people like me and Bardock. I'm just glad we're not under those sorts of pressures."

Trunks was quiet a moment, watching her as he took another sip of his drink. "You don't fight, do you? You work here, instead. Is that, uh. Weird?"

Gine laughed, as much in surprise at the question as the question itself. "A bit," she admitted. "We're known as a warrior race. And, I mean — I used to be in Bardock's squad. I did my time on the frontlines." She canted her head. "I'm just not all that suited for it. But we still need people to keep the planet running, you know?" Her smile softened. "I like this better."

Gine thought she could almost see a reply in Trunks's smile. But also something a little sad. "I wish there was more room for lives like yours," he said. And then his brow suddenly creased — faint but notable — as his gaze shifted past her. There was something unnerved in his eyes.

It was enough to have Gine look behind her towards the door. Her body was swiftly and instinctively reacting to the possibility of danger, but she saw nothing.

Until her youngest son burst through the door with all the energy of a whirlwind.

Gine laughed, relaxing instantly, and abandoned her seat to sweep over to him. She plucked him up, tossed him overhead, and then squeezed him tight as he shouted and laughed protests.

"My little Kakarot! Did you have fun today? Did you bring me home a present?" She rubbed her cheek against the bristle of his hair as she laughed.

"Mama, stop!" her youngest whined as he flailed in her arms.

It was only once she'd given him a proper torturing that Gine finally set him back down on the floor. "We've got a guest over," she said. "He's seen you before, but you've never met him. He's the prince's trainer." She smiled and started to look back over to the table. "Trunks, this is—"

Gine's words died on her tongue when she saw the raw grief on Trunks's face.

It's not him.

They weren't the same. Of course they weren't. The resemblance between them had always been strong, but they weren't identical.

But all he could see was him.

Trunks couldn't look at the child. He rose from his seat and started to mumble some excuse. He wasn't even sure what he was saying.

Trunks is eight, and he and Goten become one person for the first time. There's no room for secrets, but it's okay: what they both see is that the other thinks their best friend is the greatest person in the entire world. It's the happiest moment of Trunks's life.

Trunks could feel his heart racing, and some strangely detached pinpoint in the back of his mind wondered if he was having a panic attack.

The voice wasn't loud enough to stop it, though. There was a bomb inside of him.

He needed to get out.

Trunks is thirteen, and he just made Goten laugh so hard he sprayed soda all over the cafeteria table. Trunks doesn't care that his new designer jacket is sticky now. He's watching Goten with a grin so wide it hurts his face. It's the happiest moment of Trunks's life.

Trunks shoved out of the house and stumbled out onto the street. He thought he caught someone on the street staring at him, but there was only a split second before Trunks was in the air and speeding away as fast as his ki could take him.

Trunks is seventeen, and he's tracing the nape of Goten's neck with his eyes. Without thinking, he reaches to trace it with his finger, too. Goten looks over at him — not even surprised, but as if it's the most natural thing in the world — and he smiles the smile that's just for Trunks. It's the happiest moment of Trunks's life.

Trunks kept flying and flying. He didn't know what he was looking for. He felt the press of memories in an endless loop, but no matter how much they echoed, they were crystal clear every time.

Trunks is twenty-six, and he's drunk at Goten's door. The apologies spill out of him, endless as a rainstorm, and Trunks wonders if he'll ever run dry of regrets. He wonders if his entire world is over. He wonders if he's ruined everything forever. Until Goten smiles at him like sunshine and parts the clouds. It's the happiest moment of Trunks's life.

He found the tallest peak in a mountain range far from any sign of civilization. He could feel the thinness of the air in the stretch of his lungs.

Trunks is thirty, and he's standing in a tuxedo next to his best friend and boyfriend and fiancé and soulmate, and he promises him his heart, his hands, his blood, and whatever other part of him Goten wants. He watches a helpless laugh escape Goten at the stupid, unspoken joke. It's the happiest moment of Trunks's life.

As Trunks screamed, that remote part of his mind wondered if this is what it was like for his father to transform. For Goku. He wondered if this was the sensation of having their heart ripped from their chests until they finally ascended.

He clawed inside of himself for the spark. The ground shook and cracked beneath his feet. Somewhere inside of him, some part of it had to be there. It had to still be there.

Trunks is thirty-two, and Goten is there.

Trunks is thirty-five, and Goten is there.

Trunks is thirty-seven, and Goten is there.

Trunks is forty-one, and Goten is—

The mountain crumbled underneath him, and there was nothing inside of Trunks any longer.

He was hollow.

"They treat children very differently where you're from, don't they?"

Trunks opened his eyes to the sound of the familiar voice of the Saiyan in his dreams. The sky was golden once more. He wondered where he was. Where he kept coming back to.

He didn't bother to get up. He didn't bother to look around for the Saiyan. He knew he was there.

"It didn't used to be like this for us, either," the Saiyan continued.

"I don't want to talk about this," Trunks said very quietly up to the sky.

The Saiyan made a quiet sound of acknowledgment. He was silent a moment, thoughtful, and then he asked, "What do you want to talk about?"

"Nothing." But Trunks's answer only stood briefly before he said, "Or maybe who the fuck you are. Or where the fuck I am."

The Saiyan was silent.

"Maybe what the fuck I'm doing," Trunks continued, and he could hear the edge of hysteria in his voice. "Do you know? Because I sure don't. I don't know if I'm making things better or worse. I don't know when any of the things I know are supposed to happen will happen. I don't know if I've fucked over the entire timeline here. I don't know—" He felt tears trail down his cheeks into his ears.

The Saiyan stepped closer; Trunks still didn't look at him, but he could feel him. The dream proximity. The Saiyan sat down next to him.

"I don't know what your world was like," the Saiyan admitted quietly. "I don't know what events you know of. I only know what's happening now." He paused briefly. "If your being here is different from what you know — then I think things must be very different. You are very different."

Trunks took a deep breath. These dreams always felt so startlingly real; it was if he was transported somewhere else entirely, rather than simply being visited in his sleep. He could almost still feel the aches of his real body.

The Saiyan stirred beside him, suddenly and abruptly tense. Trunks turned his head to look at him, and he caught the man's profile. It was grim in its darkness.

"I think you'll have to wake up now," the Saiyan said. He set a hand on Trunks's shoulder. "I'll talk to you soon, Trunks."

Chapter 9

"What's your home like, Uncle Tarble?"

It was the last evening of Tarble and Gure's latest visit to Earth. Trunks was fascinated by these relatives he barely knew, and old enough now to start watching the subtle interplay between his father and uncle. Old enough to sense tension there, some old wound or malcontent, something not quite settled in his father. He was not old enough yet to recognize what it was.

Tarble smiled up at the sky. At Gure's quiet encouragement, he had asked Trunks to show him more of Earth, and they were out in the country now, lounging in the grass beneath a tapestry of stars.

"Peaceful," he said. "Apart from the time we came here for help. I feel lucky to have been raised there."

Tarble spoke with such contentedness, but Trunks still felt unsatisfied. As if the response was somehow inadequate.

Trunks sat up, his brow furrowing as he tried to pinpoint the source of his skepticism. Of his...dissatisfaction. Tarble turned his head to study him, his expression troubled, but also somehow...expectant. There were endless questions to be posed, and he was not surprised for them to be waiting for him.

"Aren't you mad?" Trunks finally blurted out, looking at his uncle with a flash of frustration he didn't even understand. "Your parents — my grandparents — they sent you away. Right? Because you weren't strong enough. That's..."

His words failed him as he found them inadequate for the situation. Too small to encompass the enormity of it. The betrayal he somehow felt on his uncle's behalf.

Tarble's smile gentled. It grew sad. "I won't say that I've never been angry," he admitted after a moment. "Although I think I was always more...hurt. I've felt inadequate. A failure. But at the same time, I wish I could remember more of them. Of my home." He paused. "Of your father. I was...very young when I was sent away."

"But that's not fair!"

Trunks could not tell if it was the sentiment or just the vehemence of it that surprised Tarble. His uncle's features settled once more, though, and he smiled again.

"No," he agreed. "It wasn't fair. I was sent to a world I didn't know or understand when I was far too young. But—" Again, he hesitated. "I know what sort of people my race was. I know that they were not known for...softness. Even with their own children. But somehow, after a fashion, I think that my parents may have done what was best for me. I was weak, and they knew I didn't have the thirst for battle. If I had stayed on Vegetasei — even if it hadn't been destroyed, I don't think I would have thrived there. But my real home — the place that they sent me — let me be someone else. There was space there for me to be something other than a warrior. And that..." Tarble drew a breath as he looked back up at the stars. "That changed everything for me."

Trunks studied the outline of his uncle's profile in the moonlight, tipped up to the sky. He was quiet a long moment before he asked, "Then why does papa get so..." He couldn't find the word.

Tarble made a soft, thoughtful sound. "You know him better than I do," he admitted with a quiet sadness. "I don't remember very much of my childhood on Vegetasei. But I do remember that he was my hero." He hesitated again, long enough that Trunks briefly thought he might not finish.

But then Tarble said, "He fought for me. That's what I remember. And I think—" His smile grew sad once more. "I think he may never have quite forgiven himself for letting me go."

Trunks woke to a red sky overhead. He felt more hungover than he'd been in his entire life, and he hadn't even been drunk.

Well. Barely.

Every muscle protested at his first attempt at movement, so he stopped trying. Trunks studied the sky instead, feeling the emptiness inside of him. Just breathing felt a herculean task.

Goku is alive. Goku is still here. Tarble is still here.

Trunks tried to pick apart the order of events as he stared up at the sky. He knew Goku had arrived on Earth as a child — but how young a child? Tarble would be sent away from Vegetasei — but at what age?

When was any of this supposed to happen?!

Trunks finally risked moving again, pushing himself up from the earth with a groan. He didn't know anything for sure, but something was gnawing at the pit of his stomach. He felt uneasy.

Should Goku be gone by now? Should Tarble?

Trunks pressed the heel of his hand to his brow. He knew that he was changing things, but — he had never considered a world where the two of them didn't make it to where they were meant to be.

What was Earth without Goku? What was Goku without Earth? How would Goten—.

Trunks's hand fell away, and that quiet dread he'd felt suddenly became much, much larger. It wasn't coming from inside of him. It was coming from—.

His gaze snapped to the sky. With a flare of ki, Trunks sped back towards the capital.

Frieza never announced his visits ahead of time.

Vegeta learned this fact very young. His father was very particular about his son's education regarding their Emperor, and Vegetasei's very delicate relationship that existed with him.

Frieza arrived whenever he wished to.

The palace staff was trained to move quickly, both from experience and from fear. Scouters were swiftly adjusted to prepare them for the influx of power. Plush red carpet was rolled out on the landing platform to welcome the most powerful being in the universe.

Vegeta stood on the platform near his father, his gaze lifted to the sky as they waited for the inevitable landing. The magnitude of Frieza's power — now that he could feel it — was like a weight atop him. Oppressive and suffocating. Vegeta had grown used to his father's power, as well as the strange fluctuations in his trainer's, and he had heard countless stories of Frieza's power.

But it was very different to feel it.

The size of it was so vast that Vegeta didn't sense Trunks's approach until he was nearly on top of them. Trunks touched down on the platform with only a minute to spare.

"You are not needed here," the King snapped immediately, taking in Trunks's less than groomed appearance with immediate disdain. He didn't even glance at the guards when he said, "Get rid of him."

Their response was immediate, if somewhat reluctant, but Trunks didn't so much as stir. "If something happens," he said, "I will be his best chance."

The King held up a hand, belaying his last order and leaving the guards paused awkwardly mid-attempt. He glared at Trunks for a long, assessing moment, before finally lowering his hand. "It is your life to give," he sneered, and then turned his gaze to the ship cutting through the clouds as it lowered for landing.

Vegeta watched the entire exchange with a frustration that he couldn't quite put name to. Some offense at being made an outsider in his own home. In his own family.

He was still seething when the ship finally landed.

Vegeta had only met their Emperor once before, but he knew he would never forget the sight of his father prostrated on the ground like a dog before its master. It had been the sort of shock that he felt in the marrow of his bones as some immutable truth of his existence crumbled into dust.

They were not the strongest.

It happened now just as it did before. Vegeta, now in his second meeting, tried to imagine it was his own father he was kneeling before when he lowered himself to his knee. Paying appropriate fealty. He tried not to think about the fact that his father was on the ground, too.

"A warm welcome, as always," Frieza, the Galactic Emperor, all but purred. His hover pod came to a halt before them, and the unassuming creature took his time to admire the sight of his subjects humbled before him.

"I fear I must apologize for my tardiness," he said. "I had meant to return much sooner for my visit. I'm afraid I was thoroughly distracted by a delightful new conquest that brought with it all sorts of toys. It is so rare to find a planet worth annexing instead of clearing out, and I found myself quite taken by the novelty of it."

"You owe us no apology, sire," the King said swiftly. Vegeta thought he might vomit in disgust.

"Of course," Frieza agreed with a dismissive wave of his fingers. "In any case, I have high hopes for Planet Frieza #80. I hope you find the toys as enjoyable as I do." His smile curled with such satisfaction just to announce the latest gem in his horde. He reached into a compartment in his hover chair and pulled out a compact, metallic cylinder small enough to hold between his thumb and index finger. "Shall I offer you a taste?"

"You are too generous, sire," the King replied. Vegeta slowly felt the rhythm of the song between them. Owner and pet.

Frieza clicked a switch on the end of the cylinder, and then tossed it in the space between him and the King. In a puff of smoke, the tiny capsule had disappeared, and the familiar sight of a spherical attack pod had taken its place. There was room, but just barely: one of the guards actually got knocked back by the sudden appearance of the spacecraft, which only served to bolster Frieza's amusement.

"A gift," he declared. "You'll find there's a new switch on the outside of the craft to return it to its smaller form. Rather clever, isn't it? They call them hoipoi capsules." He leaned forward in his seat. "One of my men came across one of them on a mission, and I found myself so curious that I simply had to hunt down the planet responsible for them. I trust you can imagine the numerous applications."

The King – and the rest of those gathered – was staring at the pod. And then, for the briefest moment, Vegeta saw his father's gaze shift – not to Vegeta, but past him.

To Trunks. Vegeta frowned, suddenly realizing his trainer had gone absolutely silent beside him; he couldn't so much as hear him breathing. He chanced a glance to Trunks's face to find an expression that Vegeta didn't understand. Something like horror.

"Thank you, your majesty," the King said, pulling Vegeta's attention back to the Emperor. "Your generosity is endless as ever."

Frieza looked idly from the King to the rest of the royal family; his gaze only briefly noted the queen, but it lingered on Vegeta far longer. He lifted one graceful finger to tap the side of his scouter.

It was a split second's instinct: Vegeta saw Frieza's hand lift, he saw his finger move, and some part of him whispered to take action. Before he even realized what he was doing, Vegeta curled his inner hands about the warmth of ki that was his power. He squeezed it and shaded it from view.

Behind him, he heard his trainer draw in a subtle breath of surprise, and then still once more.

What are you doing? Hiding? Saiyans do not hide.

Self-disgust roiled in his gut, but another part of Vegeta felt a thrill of something else: not safety, but survival. Deception.

Let him underestimate me. Why should I give him any information at all?

Frieza's lips pursed as he read his scouter's readout; his disappointment was overt. "I am surprised," he mused. "I had expected more growth from you after our first meeting."

Vegeta saw his father's attention flicker. He saw the brief shift of confusion on his features before he schooled them back to neutrality.

"We still expect greatness from him, your majesty," the King told Frieza.

The Emperor's smile was politely predatory, but unimpressed. "I am certain." His gaze drew slowly down the line of royals and guards arrayed before him, and Vegeta watched it linger next on Trunks beside him. "How very novel," Frieza murmured.

His gaze returned to the King and Queen. "But I believe I have heard your second has finally emerged in recent months. And yet you do not seem to have brought him for me to meet."

The reaction was instant, if subtle. Vegeta could feel the tension in both his parents. It was as if a hidden but healing wound had been discovered and pressure slowly applied.

Saiyans loathed vulnerability.

For one brief, revolting moment that made Vegeta's insides recoil, the Emperor played at looking hurt. But there was a blade beneath it. "I do so hate being disappointed."

Usually, Vegeta's father was the sole responder during these moments; he bore the weight of ultimate leadership on Vegetasei, and he behaved accordingly in regards to the Emperor. But this time, it was the Queen who replied.

"We would never do so intentionally, your majesty," Nira said. Her gaze remained lowered. "We did not think the second prince would be of interest to you; he is quite weak, and thus not worthy of your attention."

"Is that so?" Silence extended between the Emperor and his subjects as he weighed the justification. One black nail tapped idly against the edge of his hover pod; in the empty air, Vegeta felt each tap as a deafening strike. The tension he felt in his parents leached into his bones and twisted into anger inside of him.

No one should threaten the royal family of Vegetasei and live. Vegeta could feel it like molten lava inside of him. He was a star, and there was an explosive reaction roiling inside of him.

But then Frieza smiled.

"I didn't know Saiyans could be so gracious," he said. "How remarkable." He leaned forward in his seat and laced his fingers on the edge of his hover pod. Expectant. "Such courtesy must be met with the grace it deserves. Even if the boy is unworthy, I will grant him the compliment of my attention."

Vegeta's brows creased. Anxiety was gnawing at his bones, a worry he couldn't quite place. He knew there was a threat, but he didn't understand what it was. He couldn't translate the strange etiquette of Frieza's words; he could only feel the intent that they were not a gift.

The silence that followed was just long enough to be notable. But then the King said, "Of course, sire."

Tarble had never been asked to meet someone.

It was different when Vegeta took him to meet Trunks. Vegeta was very important, but Tarble knew he was not their father. He knew it was different when their father wanted them to meet someone. Vegeta had to sometimes, because Vegeta was older and stronger and more important.

But today was different. The guards said that his father was with someone very important, and that his father wanted Tarble to come, too.

Maybe Vegeta had been telling their father about the training. Maybe Vegeta told him about how Tarble could fly and how he could feel things and how there was a star inside of him. Tarble could do things now.

Maybe their father was proud.

The guards led him out to the landing pad, and Tarble could see everyone important. His father and mother were both there, and Vegeta, and Trunks. They were all kneeling, like how Tarble had to sometimes. The guards brought him closer, and Tarble saw that everyone was looking at him. His father, his mother, his brother, Trunks—

—and the strange alien they were all kneeling to.

"Come closer, little princeling," the alien told him. He didn't sound angry. Tarble looked at his father, and his father nodded at him to obey. So Tarble did.

The alien was looking at him very closely. Tarble tried to stay as still as he could, just like his father had told him to once. He knew he shouldn't, but the alien was making him so nervous, and so he held the edges of his cape in his fingers. He wished he could hold onto his tail, or someone else's tail, but he knew he would be in even more trouble if he did that.

"Hm," the alien mused, tapping a button on the little device Tarble saw some of the guards wear. "I see you were speaking in earnest when you spoke of his power, Queen Nira."

"I would never seek to mislead you, sire," his mother said.

Tarble's brow furrowed. He didn't know exactly what they meant, but he had heard his family talk about power before. Especially Tarble's power. Most especially the fact that he didn't have enough of it.

"Of course," the alien laughed. "I am certain he has other talents, though. Don't you?"

The alien was looking at Tarble again. Tarble wasn't sure what it meant by talents, so he didn't know how to answer. But usually people were asking him about fighting, so Tarble gripped his cape tighter and said, "I'm not very good at fighting. I don't like it."

When silence followed, Tarble realized it was the wrong thing to say.

"Fascinating. A Saiyan who doesn't like fighting." The alien leaned forward in the hovering chair it sat in. "You must be quite an embarrassment to your parents."

Tarble felt his face flush red; he knew it was true, but no one had ever said it out loud in front of him. There were quiet noises around him, almost like people were going to start talking, but then it got quiet again.

"I know how to fly," he offered. It wasn't fighting, but Tarble knew that flying was still important to learn.

"Do you?" The alien seemed to think Tarble had said something funny. "I admit I can't recall what age your kind tends to learn." Tarble didn't know, either, so he stayed quiet.

The alien looked past him to his parents again. "You know, it had been my intention to invite Prince Vegeta to spend some time with me. Expand his horizons. See new places. Learn under my tutelage." It looked at Tarble once more. "But my heart is so very moved. This poor child will clearly never thrive here on Vegetasei; your people have such a narrow view of the world."

Everyone else was being very quiet.

"Yes, I think that's just the thing," the alien continued. It sounded like it was being very kind. Like it was being nice to Tarble's parents. Except its voice also made Tarble feel uncomfortable. Like the alien was being nice, but also wasn't.

"Prince Tarble will learn at my side."

It was instinct.

Trunks felt like the world was simultaneously moving too fast to act, and too slow to comprehend. He heard Vegeta's objection, and the quelling sharpness of the King. And then he felt Vegeta lurch forward.

It was instinct.

Trunks's hand moved of its own accord as some horribly pragmatic voice in his head told him he had already made this choice. He had already sworn to it. Who would he be if did not honor his oaths?

Trunks realized that it was his father's voice in his head at the same moment that his fingers closed around Vegeta's tail. And it was the blade of his father's hand impacting the side of Vegeta's skull now, sending him to darkness, and Trunks could still feel the impact of it ringing in his head thirty years ago.

The entire crowd surrounding them was frozen. Both monarchs and the entirety of the King's Guard were staring at him, and Trunks could feel a rising fury in the air around him. He ignored it as he carefully lifted Vegeta in his arms.

Don't think about the capsule. Don't think about the ship. Don't think about home–.

He heard a soft beep, and his gaze turned to find Frieza, Emperor of the Galactic Empire, staring at him as his scouter chirped its report. Trunks held his gaze steady even as he felt a quiet dread pool at the base of his spine. He punched down his fury until it could fit into the palm of his hand. Until he could tuck it into his pocket and hide it away. Until he was unremarkable.

Frieza smiled. And then he looked back to the King. "That's settled, then," he said, so very polite. "I am delighted to have this opportunity to offer my education to your young Prince. How wonderful that we can engage in such marvelous diplomatic exchanges." He looked down at Tarble. "Come, little princeling. I have such delights across the galaxy to show you."

Trunks watched Tarble look to his parents, and he saw the terror of a lost child in his face. There were no embraces, but there was a moment when Nira kneeled before her second son. Trunks could not hear what parting words she offered to Tarble; he could only hope they would be enough. He looked to the King, standing between Frieza and his family, and he wondered what it was like for such a powerful man to feel so powerless.

Maybe Trunks already knew what it felt like.

Nira finally rose and watched grimly alongside the King as they sent their second son into the hands of the Emperor. And as Tarble slowly and dutifully walked from his parents and his people and his planet, there was a moment that he looked back. His eyes met Trunks's, and there was an instant when Trunks felt the full weight of the betrayal he had inflicted on this child.

And then Tarble was gone.

As Frieza's ship disappeared into the atmosphere, Trunks was left holding the child he had chosen to save, and the guards around him began to stir once more. They looked to Trunks, all fury and consternation and hesitation melding and mixing together, until one of them finally grew bold enough to declare, "The sentence for laying hands on the royal family is death."

Trunks exhaled a long, slow breath. "So kill me," he said. He already felt dead inside in that moment. "At least he's alive." And he looked at the King's Guard, one by one, with a hollow gaze. "Would any of you have been able to stop him?" And then, finally, he looked to the King and Queen.

His grandfather looked at him for a very long time, before he finally turned to stride back to the palace without a word. His grandmother lingered longer, her eyes dropping to her son's body in Trunks's arms. And then she said, "He has upheld his oath," before departing in her husband's wake.

Vegeta's ki blast exploded the door.

The guards who had led him to this trainer's room hung back, grimly on edge as their Prince quite literally blew his way inside. It had been hours since Vegeta had been unceremoniously knocked unconscious, and he intended to make up for lost time.

Vegeta stormed inside. There was a stale, sour scent in the air, faint but still distracting beneath the sharper scent of metallic scrap dust. The room was starkly bare inside; aside from the usual palace decorations, Vegeta only saw a ragged black jacket, a sheathed sword, and little else.

And finally, sitting on the floor waiting for him, was Trunks, watching Vegeta with a half-empty bottle and unsurprised resignation.

Somehow, the lack of response to Vegeta's show of force just served to make him angrier.

"You dared to lay your hands on me!" Vegeta screamed at him.

Trunks didn't move. His elbows were resting on his knees, his hands hanging loosely between them. "I did," he said simply.

"The punishment for laying hands on the royal family is death," Vegeta continued.

"So I've heard," said Trunks. He tipped his head. "I can beat any of you one on one, but you might be able to take me down with enough numbers." His smile was devoid of humor. It was more like a grimace.

Vegeta lifted his hand, and the balcony exploded. Trunks didn't move.

"You let him go!" Vegeta should not care. He should not feel sentimental attachment to his brother who was too weak to fight. But still, he found himself screaming. "You let him take Tarble! You let him take my brother! I was going to save him and you stopped me!"

"You wouldn't have saved him," Trunks said quietly. "Either someone would have stopped you, or you would have died, or it would have been you–"

"You don't know that! I am the most powerful Saiyan my race has ever produced—"

"You would have died!" Trunks had not risen from his seat, but he straightened, and his voice was sharper now. "Don't be an idiot: you can feel his ki now. You know how far beyond you he is."

"And what about you?!" Vegeta spat at him. His anger felt like a physical thing: a storm that howled inside his heart. If he plunged his hand into his chest, he might be able to close his fingers around it. "You sneak around with your hidden ki so that no one knows how powerful you are! You say you are stronger than all of us, and you won't even fight him! You were too much of a coward to save my brother!"

There was something awful inside of him. Vegeta felt it like a sickness, infecting the strength of his anger to make it weak. It felt like loss.

"Why didn't you save him?!" Vegeta could feel his eyes stinging, and he hated himself for it. He hated himself for all of it. He hated himself for being weak. "You could have saved him!"

"No," Trunks said quietly. "I couldn't have. Not even me. Maybe once, I could have. But not anymore."

"I don't know what that means!" Blood was pounding in Vegeta's head. His heart was going to explode. "Everything you say is a puzzle or a mystery! I don't even know who you are! I don't know anything about you!" Something was tightening in his throat. He could barely talk, and so he had to scream. "Why didn't you save him?!"

Vegeta's sight was too blurry to see any details of the movement that followed, but he felt the close of arms around him. He began to thrash, howling wild as an animal, twisting and snarling in Trunks's grip.

"I'm sorry," Trunks said close to Vegeta's ear. "I'm so sorry, Vegeta. I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

Vegeta gasped for air as the humiliation of sobs escaped him. And then he finally gave up, and cried in someone's arms for the first time in his life.