Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Désir Nouveau ❯ Life and Death ( Chapter 1 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ.

A/N: This is a remake of Paris Mon Amour by Nana1983 on FFN. I have been given special permission to take her plot and make my own interpretation of it. I really like her clever and unique idea to have Mirai-timeline Trunks meet regular-timeline Android Seventeen through a series of events. Its definitely different than the run-of-the-mill fictions you see about these two characters. Most, if not all, of these deal with M. Trunks somehow sparing the android's life and keeping him prisoner...basically they're Beauty and the Beast-type stories, only (in an attempt to keep Seventeen "in character") the android does not "fall in love" with his captor. Even though the android devastated Trunks' life, Trunks still keeps him around because "he's the only one left". This, in my opinion, is no excuse to keep a cold-blooded killer around as a pet.

This story, however, is not like that. I hope you readers find it rich in detail and originality! Jouir (enjoy)!

Attention: I'm taking CU elements and raping them thoroughly to make this AU work, but not without proper reason (Toriyama's world isn't really explained in-depth). Hard-core and old-school fans, you have been warned.

A bright, incredible light filled Android Seventeen's vision. He closed his eyes tight and turned his head to the side, shielding his precious vision from the cruel sun. Is this fabled light at the end of the tunnel? He thought,  Was this really what happens when someone dies? Whatever the fuck it is, dying hurts like a bitch!

Wait...how can I be in pain from the light when I don't have a body to feel the pain with? Last thing I remember, I was devoured by Cell.

The android sat up groggily, watching his vision clear. Everything was green and strangely quiet. Something told him this wasn't heaven, and he didn't really die at all; something or someone saved him. The question was, how the hell did he end up in the middle of a forest?

He pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, rubbing them wearily. He blinked, letting tears form into his eyes from the relieved pressure. Once his vision cleared completely, he saw that he was surrounded by trees. It seemed as if he were left laying in the middle of some forest.

Wobbly, he stood up, using a thick oak tree as support. Once stabilized, he dusted the leaves and dirt off of his clothes and out of his hair. He had to figure out what he was going to do now that he had miraculously come back to life. He had no money, a home to go to, or any friends or family besides his older twin sister, Android Eighteen.

"Wait," He said to himself, giving the area another sweep, "We died in the same place, so why aren't we together?" He listened closely to his surroundings while looking carefully, being that he could not read ki. Not one for yelling, he started his silent search, remembering when all of this mess started in his life.

He couldn't recall a time that he and his sister had ever really been apart for more than a few hours at a time ever since they ran away from their suffocating home in North City. They stole cars and committed petty theft. Selling most of the jewelry they lifted off of passersby,  they got enough money to pay-off bouncers and get into clubs. Living life on the fast-track was their vice; the natural high they got off of it was addicting on its own.

It wasn't until he and his sister befriended a group of  friends that went on 'shroom-hunting trips, whenever the conditions were right in the mountains, that their whole lives changed. Eighteen wasn't one for much drug-use but tagged along for the fun of seeing her brother trip-out and make a fool of himself.

A few hours of roaming the forest-covered mountains to the south of North City, Seventeen and his sister both lost track of the group and found nothing. They had wandered too far and too high, and Seventeen started to feel the effects of dehydration from lack of self-preparation for the trip, and all the water was with the other part of the group.

Eventually, they stumbled to a nearby open road near a rocky cliff face. The area was dry, strangely, and had little-to-no vegetation for miles. Neither adventurer didn't remember going this far up the mountain, but there was definitely something eerily wrong with the area.

Soon, they spotted a metal door imbedded into the rock surface. Both siblings thought that they had ventured into an anarchist terrorist group's mountain hide-away, or a World Military's secret test facility. They reasoned that the apparent hide-away couldn't belong to the most famous terrorist organization, the Red Ribbon Army, because the entire faction was obliterated with the work of one single person (so the stories say).

The only thing the door could belong to was a military branch of some sort. Regardless, the lure of  trillions worth of weaponry was almost too good to pass up.  Seventeen gripped the turning wheel on the front of it, trying to get it to budge with all the strength his average human body could muster.  Soon, Eighteen followed suit, but nothing happened.

But suddenly, each received a sharp jab in the back of their neck and mid-back. Their surroundings faded and all became black. When they came to, both were laying on separate operating tables inside of what looked like a cramped operating lab. Instruments lay neatly on a chrome mini-table, and charts hung on cabinet doors here and there. What was most bizarre was the lines of chambers along the walls. Some seem to hold some sort of figure in them.

"What do they do," Seventeen asked, sitting up and looking around cautiously at the chambers, "Use them for test-guinea pigs?"

Eighteen examined her own pleasing reflection in the blade a shiny  operator's power-saw and shrugged. A mysterious reflection of a gray-skinned, wizened male glimmered upon the circular blade, almost like a brief flash, startling the woman.

"To answer your inquiry," Came the voice of the owner of the reflection, "In a sense, they are. Now, if you don't mind, answer mine: What do you two think you are doing here? Trespassing on this premises is punishable by law."

"We don't care about the fucking law," Seventeen said, crossing his arms and staring impudently.

The old man chuckled, "Well, neither do I, so I took matters into my own hands."

Eighteen looked positively affronted, while Seventeen was livid. Looking at the elderly, long-haired man before them, they noticed  a symbol on his person of what looked like a small, red-colored bowtie outline with two white "r's" on either side. The Red Ribbon Army! The terrorist group responsible for many conspiracies against the Crown and a list of some of the most horrible scandals in corporate and political history!

"What did you do to us?!" Eighteen demanded.

"Nothing, yet," The man said with an arrogant smile, "I should have had you killed for trespassing on this private property, but if you do something for me, we can forget this ever happened.

The man introduced himself as the Doctor Gero. He gave a thoroughly-convincing argument about his intentions of power and revenge. He wanted to create a group of super-humans that could one day destroy his biggest enemy: Goku. Seventeen and Eighteen, of course, did not care about the doctor's personal vendetta, they only cared about getting incredible power to do what they want with.

In no time, operations were performed on the two humans. Using the latest devices in nanotechnology, damaged cell-repairing nano-bots were implanted into their bodies, retaining their youthful appearances and optimum health.

Installed into the frontal lobe of their brains was a motherboard chip that controlled the nano-bots, as well as the function of the brain itself. It enhanced the posterior of the frontal-lobe, making the motor skills far more accurate and agile than the average human, and un-tapping the ability to fly (while repressing ki give-off). Also, the chip repressed obstructive and distracting brain functions of the anterior of the frontal-lobe such as emotions, while enhancing cognitive ability.

To the doctor's dismay, however, his favored androids proved to be most stubborn and abusive with their new power. He wanted them to be grateful, to worship him for granting them with such a blessing; but no, the rebellious brats did nothing more than cause him great grief and many migraines. He then constructed a shut-down switch that caused the nano-bots and motherboard chip to halt its actions, thus killing the androids. Until the day they were to be put to the task they were modified for, they remained in a cryogenic slumber.

Seventeen shook the memories from his head as he neared a clearing in the trees.  A huge, murky pond was visible, and the faint sound of people talking met with his ears. Ever since he had killed his "creator", he had done nothing but cause trouble for his own personal entertainment. Now that he had been brought back, and was either abandoned by his sister, or she just didn't come back, causing shock for shock's sake didn't seem so fun anymore.

He had to figure out where he was. He stepped out of the tree-line and onto a concrete walk-way. He looked down each end of the walk way and noticed a small group of what looked like joggers trotting at a steady pace around the bend of the pond.

The first couple of joggers at the head of the group took little notice of the stranger who had just walked from out of the woods. However, the stragglers, a blonde-haired girl and a cute brunette did take notice. They were chatting together in a strange language that was unfamiliar to the android.

"Qu'est-ce qu'une personne étrange!" The brunette giggled to her friend.

"Regardez ses vêtements miteux!" The blonde responded, eyeing an annoyed and confused Seventeen before jogging on, laughing with the other girl.

He had no clue as to what was going on.  The strange language made almost no sense to him, as he had only heard people speak the Common tongue. He had heard tell of citizens in Lesser Cities sometimes speaking in different languages, but he had never been outside of his own home city, aside from hunting Goku down.

He did not have long to dwell on things when a hand clapped him none-too-gently on the shoulder, startling him. Seventeen turned to face a strapping older gentleman wearing a forest-green uniform and a tan campaign hat.

"Avez-vous besoin d'aide, jeune homme?" He asked in what Seventeen assumed was a friendly tone, for the tall man did smile.

Seventeen stared bewilderedly. "Can't you speak Common?" He asked, growing more and more tired of the mysteries that have befallen him ever since waking up in the woods.

The man's green eyes brightened, "Oh!" He said, quickly losing the throaty, melodic accent, "I'm sorry, I thought you were a local! I asked you if you needed any help."

"Yeah, I do, actually. Where the fuck am I? I guess you can say I'm lost."

The man in green looked around as if wondering how the poor boy could have possibly gotten lost here, "Why, this is Bois de Boulogne; a park here in Paris," He considered the shorter man before him and then continued, "Where is your home?"

The young android did not answer. He stopped listening at the word "Paris". The name sounded familiar, like something he had learned about long ago when he went to school. Still, Paris sounded a lot better than being stuck in the middle of the woods. "Point me in the direction of the city," He demanded.

The bright expression faltered on the taller man's face. "Directly that way," He said, pointing to the east, "I can escort you there, if you would like." He finished in an attempt to keep niceties.

"No, thanks," The android said flatly, taking flight in the direction pointed for him, leaving the thoroughly-shocked man in a flurry of leaves and grass.

Seventeen stared down at his distorted reflection in the water he flew over. He was a filthy mess, indeed, and needed some new clothing quick. He hoped this Paris had what he was looking for. Five-finger-discount never sounded so good!

***
Almost twenty years into the future, Trunks dropped to his hands and knees, shaking with sobs. He gasped for air as he cries in sheer, unadulterated agony.  Yes, he had defeated both androids after three years of training and yes, he restored morale in the few survivors of the destruction inflicted from twenty years of constant tyranny. He knew that; but now the only person left in his life was gone. His mother had worked herself to death in order to protect her life, as well as the lives of the survivors.

He had no one left, and he realized this as he sobbed pathetically on the bedroom floor of the house he couldn't possibly think of calling home again.  He had just finished filling up his mother's grave when he had lost it. He wished he could bring one of the androids back to life, at least, so he could kill him or her all over again. Then, he could take his anger out on and blame someone other than himself.

He was born into death and blood, you see. The date of his birth was just a little more than a year before the androids, Seventeen and Eighteen, were activated. They were a couple of runaway twin siblings in the early stages of their adulthood when the sick and twisted Dr. Gero, the evil genius who was the brains of the entire Red Ribbon Army kidnapped them and performed lurid body-modification operations on them. Once created, the emotionless, blood-thirsty cyborgs wrecked havock on innocent civilians of many cities, having no regard whatsoever of what was right or wrong.

The Earth quickly went from a tentative monarchy run by dogs, to complete anarchy due to police and military force failing under the androids' power. Soon, the Earths Special Forces moved in to stop the reign of terror. One by one, however, each warrior fell victim to the hell reigned on earth. Trunks was too young to fight at the time, and had to sit idly on the side-lines watching as each person was obliterated from existence. Gohan was the last to go. Trunks and Gohan had a special connection with each other; a pure and platonic love for each other. Gohan's death damaged Trunks severely, but it gave him more fuel for his revenge.

Then he left for the past for three years' worth of training. He used his anger, sadness and inner perseverance to increase his strength to help protect the past and defeat the androids in his time-line. So that is what he did. It took him no time to defeat the pair, and even Cell. Soon, a sort-of calm was restored, and it was him and his mother.

Things were fine for the two of them until her health started to decline. She had worked so hard with trying to create a normal life for her son and the survivors, with only obsolete alternate sources of power to run her home. This was because the androids destroyed any sources of power, like electricity-transformers, hydrogen-energy plants, and fusion-energy power plants. She used simplistic solar-panels, which was a very unpredictable source of energy, because of the weather and nighttime.

She wore herself out with trying to make sure she had plenty of back-up supplies for the days that there would be no electricity due to the weather. She worked by day, so she had to be quick. She had invented a computer program that worked like a digital meteorologist with ninety-five percent accuracy and detected the weather for her, so she could prepare for any upcoming outages.

The slave-like work took its toll on her, and she died sometime in the night. Trunks, who spent a lot of  his time training in order to feel a sort of connection with his strength-obsessed father, knew right away. He always kept her ki signature in his mental radar, in case she should get attacked. He and the other survivors were devastated. Their way of survival was now disrupted.

Thankfully, his mother thought ahead wrote instructions on how to run the house in a simplistic form, in case anything should happen to her. Trunks, though he was quite intelligent, didn't quite have his mother's understanding of mechanics and such; he took after his father with a stronger will to fight than inventing; thus, he was no help. There was, however, one survivor named Harwin, who had taken quite a fancy to Bulma and was quite a hand at electronics as well as a fast-learner. He offered to take over running of the huge house, and Trunks agreed. He didn't plan on staying there anymore.

He had no one he truly loved anymore, and staying in the house only brought on horrible memories. But where would he go? He had no estranged family that he had knowledge of, or any other friends since he was schooled at home by his mother. Suddenly, the most obvious thought struck him like a punch to the gut: he could see his mother again, because he had a time-machine.

The very idea seemed wrong, indecent, yet irresistible. Just traveling through time for this selfish purpose broke so many laws of nature, but who wouldn't pass up a chance to see a dead, beloved parent or family member again?

He felt for any ki down in the basement lab that held the time-traveling machine; of course, Harwin was down there. Trunks honestly didn't care if anyone knew he was leaving, since Harwin could take care of them; still he didn't want to deal with any questioning.

He thankfully made it downstairs without any fuss. People were unsurprised with Trunks' occasional visits down to the basement. However, it didn't mean that a tiny guilty feeling jabbed his heart every time he passed a sad, ruefully smiling face. It made it worse when they stopped him to give their condolences. Still, he escaped questioning...now he had to get by Harwin's watchful gaze.  

He pressed the button that opened the sliding door, but realized that it was locked. He was irked slightly when he realized it didn't budge. Damn him, Trunks thought, Locking the fucking door; mom used to never--, Then he stopped his thinking before he continued. He really shouldn't feel bitter towards the man who agreed to take his mother's place as head of the household.

Wiping his eyes once more, he punched in the code and the door slid welcomingly open for him. He saw Harwin exactly where he expected, at the mother-computer in the lab. The ginger-haired man touched commands on the cracked screen, checking various portions of the vast house in order to make sure that everything was functioning properly. The screen flickered dangerously, and the stocky man sighed heavily. The screen completely shut off.

"Damn junky thing's gotta be replaced," He grumbled, smacking the screen until the picture of the map of the house showed back up. He then wheeled around in his chair and faced Trunks, "Ain't gonna say hey to no one?" He asked gruffly, "I know yer sad an' all, but that ain't no reason to ignore nobody."

Always the hard-ass, Trunks thought in annoyance, "Sorry 'bout that, Har," He apologized tiredly, "I'm just lost in thought." He then made for the chamber that held the time-travelling machine. Normally he would have offered to help with the screen, but he had other priorities to care for.

The older man looked at the younger, wanting to say more, to tell him that he couldn't pine forever, but he bit his tongue. He always voiced his opinions, and held the boy in high regard, but it was not his place to tell him what to think and feel. Sure, he was devastated by the blow, too, but he had a small army of people to look after. He had to remain strong. He watched the figure exit through another sliding door, then turned back to the faulty screen.

Trunks walked into the small room that held the craft. He looked at it somberly, knowing what he was going to do. He was about to leave the place he lived at all his life. He didn't have that many personal items, so he chose to take nothing with him. They will stay behind with the rest of his memories.

He remembered all throughout his childhood when his mother would work on the time-machine as her little hobby; her side-project. She never let the word out that she was making such an incredible and innovational device that could turn the very world of science on its axis; choosing rather to keep quiet about it (and even today, what the machine was, was still a mystery to others). There were already plenty of invention thieves out there who tried stealing Capsule Corp plans; she didn't want anyone stealing her prized invention's blueprints.

This, here, also explained the lack of visitors from the future, since Bulma kept her time-traveling device a heavily-guarded secret until the craft was used for the first time. The travel to the past was possible through a time-like anomaly that warps a region of spacetime through a series of complex mathematical equations that sends the traveler to any past date-in-time by venturing at light's-speed through a traversable wormhole.

Test-runs were tentatively initiated in order to make sure the craft was at tip-top performance before actually being used for the task it was created for: traveling to the past to warn the warriors of the past  about the android threat. He remembered the thrill of being able to meet his father, however anti-social the Saiyan prince was, and the happiness of meeting his younger mother. Because the memory of his mother still burned, he shook his head of the memories and focused once more.

Climbing into the cock-pit of the time-traveling craft, he started to think of all the foul things he was leaving behind. No more would he have to dispose of the dead anymore. He's probably gained the ability to recite every stage of decomposition there was, thanks to it. No more would he have to go on difficult hunts for water to run through the make-shift purifier. And no more would he have to worry about living every day scared to close his eyes, even for a second.

Perhaps, eventually, he could even start life anew.

***

Trunks stepped out of the time-machine and re-capsulated it. He remembered being resurrected barely a few months before, but he still had that feeling that he was here only yesterday.  It was truly odd to step out onto dewy, freshly-mown lawn, knowing that peace was in the air. The smell of death was absent; the cities looked as new as ever; and though the skies were depressingly over-cast, there was still this blissful ambiance in the environment, as if nothing bad had ever happened just a short time before.

He looked up at the dome-shaped, multi-story building, feeling unease build up in his core. He certainly felt like he was being a total burden on his younger parents. He had hoped that they wouldn't see him like that; they hadn't before, especially his mother, who was always more than happy to welcome him in. Still, he had already abandoned everything, even his favored sword; it was too late to second-guess now.

"I thought you were gone for good," Came an all-too-familiar voice from a short distance away from him. Trunks froze as he watched his father march across the yard toward him.

He felt a nervous, awkward feeling in the pit of his stomach upon seeing the stern-faced man approach him. It was not uncommon knowledge that he sort-of forced his relationship with his father, despite the man constantly trying to tear away from him. And though Vegeta did come around eventually, there was still a bit of strain and awkwardness between the two.

The Saiyan was within ten feet of his son when he stopped, arms folded across his chest, and his back straight and rigid. "Are you going to answer me, or just stand there with that dumb-struck look on your face?" He asked, pressing his lips together agitatedly.

Trunks straightened his own posture, trying to cling to any sort of dignity in front of his intimidating father. "I-I've gotta talk to..." He felt the lump in his throat start to form, causing his voice to break, "I need to see mom." He finally said, quicker this time.

Vegeta looked at Trunks curiously. He could tell that something was bothering the boy, but decided not to get into it. He had his own problems to deal with, and had no time to baby a sniveling coward. "She is inside, taking care of you--that is to say, the brat."

Trunks nodded in response and watched the older man walk off to do whatever it was he wanted to do. He admired the man for his mental and physical strength, almost to the point of jealousy. He knew he could never be that stony and immune to the world and all the cares it came with, but damn it if he wished he could!

The feeling in his stomach intensified; it was the same feeling as a child gets when they are in deep trouble. He neared the door and could feel the ki of his mother and his toddler-self inside of the house. His hand reached for the all-too-familiar doorknob, but then stopped. This really wasn't his home, and he had no right to just barge in. Re-thinking, he raised his fist to the door and rapped his knuckles against its surface.

He took a step back, dropping his arm awkwardly to his side, as he didn't know what stance to take. His nerves were completely shot, and he fought the urge to lose it again. Every time he merely thought of his mother, the sickening feeling would hit him hard like a wave, and he feared his reaction once he looked upon his younger mother's face.

"JUST GO THE FUCK IN!" Came the shout of Vegeta from across the yard, once again scaring Trunks out of his thoughts.

Trunks obliged and entered the house, stepping into the hallway-like foyer. He heard his mother's voice coming from the sitting room. As if his feet were moving on their own, he walked into the room, feeling as if he were about to walk in on his mother's lifeless corpse once again.

"Trunks, I thought I told you no more," Bulma said, slightly exasperated, looking over the book she was reading.

The man standing in the doorway between the hall and the living room was taken off guard for a second, before he realized that his mother was actually talking to his baby-self. The child tottered over to his mother holding out a circular glass candle-holder, grinning, showing off a few white teeth on his bottom gums.

"he' go, Ma," He said in his tiny voice, laying the object on Bulma's pants-covered legs.

"Thank you," She said, laying the glass aside on a pile of other miscellaneous objects that the child had probably handed to her earlier.

Trunks had always found it eerie to watch his younger self. He couldn't explain it, but it was almost like a guilty feeling, like he shouldn't be there at all. He couldn't imagine how the child would react if he were old enough to see the resemblance. Still, he stood there, watching, unmoving.

The baby was first to notice his older half's presence. He shrieked and laughed, clapping his fat fists, as if he recognized the person he had just locked eyes with. The motion, however, was too wild for his uncoordinated and top-heavy body, causing him to fall upon his diapered bottom. The older Trunks felt the strange urge to laugh at the action.

"Who do you see, Trunks? Is it Daddy?" His mother cooed, giggling at the cuteness and completely forgetting her slight aggravation from moments before. She turned and her expression went from amusement to polite shock.

"My goodness!" She said, standing up quickly and striding over to where the young adult stood, "I never expected you back here, and so quickly no less!" She pulled her muscular son into an awkward hug that pinned his arms to his sides; he was so broad from all of his intensive training that her fingers barely touched together at his back.

"So," She began after pulling back, "Come in and sit down; I'm sure there must be some important reason why you've returned."

Trunks sat on the orange curved couch  that sort-of wrapped around a circular coffee table. Bulma sat a cushion apart from him, eying him admirably; she always had a fondness of her future-timeline son, despite the fact that she barely knew him.

The young half-Saiyan wrung his hands nervously, staring down at his knees. His long, uncut hair fell into his face, shielding it from visibility. He opened his mouth to speak when a matching pair of wide, blue eyes took up his field of vision.

His baby-form wedged his stout little body in between his knees and held his hands out. All too familiar with the child's love for his hair, the older Trunks jerked his head back to avoid the pain of the lavender locks being pulled.

The baby made continuous noises of frustrated grunts, opening and closing his hands repeatedly and frowning up at his older half.

"I think he wants you to pick him up!" Bulma chirped, watching delightfully as her baby pleaded with tiny grunts and whines for attention.

The older male looked beseechingly at his young mother, "I really don't..." He said slowly, trying to sound polite. He really  wished the baby would stop staring.

Seeing the desperately troubled look on the boy's face, Bulma understood. Her look of joy once again fell. "I'll just put him in his room to play," She said, "Give me a moment." She stood up and heaved the toddler into her arms.

The baby shrieked as if pained and twisted in his mother's arms to keep the older Trunks in his view. He reached out frantically, repeatedly shouting, "Hey! Hey! Hey!"

Trunks leaned back on the couch and stared at the ceiling. Though his younger mother, and the mother from his timeline were the same person, they were quite different. Talking to the younger half was like talking to a friend; he some-what felt a bit at ease, though the pain was still quite fresh.

Moments later, Bulma returned and took her spot back on the couch. "What's going on, Trunks?" She asked gently, "You look like you've been dragged through hell and back."

The half-Saiyan took in a shuddering breath. He suddenly felt as if it were too soon to admit his mother's death, though he was the one to lower her body into the ground; he was the one to hear the sickening, cracking noises of him loosening her stiff, contorted joints, courtesy of rigor mortis, to position her arms in a more peaceful position at her chest; he was the first to the grave site, and the last to leave. And now her moldering remains were probably being devoured by disgusting insects and larvae, as he didn't know how to make body-preservation chemicals, much less where to get the supplies. The make-shift wooden coffin, made by a sympathetic survivor, was the only thing protecting her precious body from the cruel world, and even that wasn't enough; six feet-worth of dirt would have crushed the flimsy material by now.

These thoughts flooded his mind, and he couldn't get them out. He wished he were the one sleeping eternally under the ground instead of the only person in the world he ever truly loved, other than his martial art's trainer, Gohan. Tears clouded his vision, and he blinked them back in vain. They slid down his face as he wished he hadn't been out training all morning, when he could have been at his dying mother's side. Why did he have to be such a fool? Why?

A reassuring arm slipped around his shoulders and he felt a smaller-framed body sort-of lean against his. "Are you sure this is something you wish to talk about? Do you need more time?"

"M-more time won't fix it," Trunks finally ground out through gritted teeth. His hands clenched into angry fists and his tears spattered against the backs of them, "More time won't fix the fact that...I s-should have b-been there...a-and now she's...f-fucking g-gone." For the second time that day, he cried in earnest.

Bulma had a sinking suspicion in the bottom of her gut that she knew what he was talking about, but she still had to be sure, "Whose gone?" She asked, vainly trying to look into Trunks' face.

"You are," The male sniffed, "You--my m-mother's--I mean--" He stumbled and choked on his words, feeling so weak and pathetic; what a disgrace he probably was. The only thing he could finish the sentence with was a quiet, "Dead."

The older woman gasped in shock, and pulled away automatically, "No," She said in disbelief, feeling tears build into her own eyes. It was quite a strange sensation learning one's own demise, much less from one's own child. Still, she felt more sad for Trunks than for herself, "Was it the androids?" She whispered, thoroughly disturbed.

Trunks shook his head, "I killed them after I was brought back to life...and returned home. She...you...died today in my time of natural causes. Mom w-worked so hard to make sure everyone we saved was safe, f-forgetting her own health was at stake." He felt strangely empty, having said this. He did not look at Bulma, mostly because of her resemblance, but also because of his shameful tears.

Bulma, who couldn't help but let her own silent tears fall down her face felt rather proud of her future self for being so strong and resilient. However, she felt quite ashamed of her present self. She was always doing things that benefited herself; even if she were the help someone, she always wanted something in return. She always had to have someone at her side, but her future self died nobly alone without anyone holding her hand. She was selfish and spoiled compared to her other self.  There was no way she could ever measure to that woman's bravery, and she felt foolish indeed for even thinking for a second that there was a chance.

They sat in silence for a while. Trunks was in a dead sort-of trance, while Bulma's mind ran with what she had just learned and she pondered her own self-worth. Death was a part of life, but most people avoid the subject, finding it too taboo to discuss. Death meant the end of sadness, worry...the end of suffering; what was so taboo about that? Death was, and forever will be, the most beautiful, natural part of life. Giving life only meant introducing one to pain and suffering; introducing one to its own mortality.

Bulma looked over at the younger figure sitting silently next to her, and her mind thought of her baby just a few rooms away. Is that what she did? Give birth to a child who will end up feeing as hopeless as the one sitting next to her? The yearning to help the miserable wreck who calls her "Mom" was all to great. She placed a reassuring hand on his. "Do you have any idea of what you want to do?"

Trunks shrugged, "I don't know what I can do," He mumbled, "I just know I cannot go back to that place."

"I really hate this for you, Trunks," The woman continued, trying to find the best thing to say. She knew that words meant little in times like these, but she still had to try, "I have plenty of room here for you, of course, so you are welcome to stay here as long as you want."

The half-Saiyan said nothing, but was truly grateful. He found comfort in his young mother's few words and gentile silence. He just hoped that his father would find it in his heart to be equally gracious; he did not want to regret his decision of trying to start life over in a peaceful world.

***

Seventeen examined his figure in the full-length mirror of a dressing room inside of a high-end department store. He determined he liked the way the slim-fitting, button-up shirt he had put on looked much better than the graphic tees he had been accustomed to wearing (and stealing).

Yes, stealing. He had nothing when he was unceremoniously dumped off in the middle of the woods a few weeks prior, and he sure as hell wasn't going to go hunting for a boring job; he couldn't stand taking orders from other people, anyhow. So, he stuck to what he knew best, and with his amazing abilities, pick-pocketing was a breeze! He didn't even need his unfaithful, traitorous sister to use as a distraction while he did the dirty work.

He removed the shirt, watching himself vainly while he did so; he loved the way he looked. He was a raging narcissist, and didn't care how prideful and selfish it made him out to be. He crushed the shoplifting-sensor off of the shirt easily and stuffed the article into a leather messenger-bag he nicked off of an unsuspecting business man  shortly after his unexpected arrival to Paris. He then put his shirt that he came in back on.

The android knew he could wreck havoc on the city if he wanted to, but he chose not to. He rather liked the posh attitude of the civilians, the timeless uniqueness that was so different from the generic hustle-and-bustle life he remembered in North City. Paris suited him well; the food was light and exquisite, and the language was melodious and pleasant to the ears; quite unlike Common, which held no harmony whatsoever, and was quite a confusing language to learn if one was from a foreign land (or planet).

He gathered all the similar shirts and proceeded to put them back, so as to keep from looking too suspicious and nothing more than a customer who couldn't find what he was looking for. This was an old shoplifting habit he and his sister had used a long time ago; choose many of the same clothing, take what was wanted, and then put the rest back in its correlating clothes racks.

Automatic doors slid open for him as he stepped briskly on the sensor pad, and he walked outside. Summer was drawing to a close, giving way to autumn. A slightly chilled breeze blew his hair into his face, and he tucked the strands behind his ear while scanning the spacious parking lot for the bright blue hover-car that belonged to his somewhat friend (and occasional lover) he had ridden with.

"Mon dieu!" Came an extremely annoyed shout, in that language that Seventeen learned was called French, from a little ways across the lot, "What the ruddy hell took you so long?!"

Seventeen rolled his eyes and started toward the source of the shout. He approached the curvy, glossy, two-person hover-car with deliberate slowness. He glared coldly eyeing its owner, who leaned casually against the craft, his own dark eyes glaring back.

"There was nothing in there I really wanted," The android bit out, "If you don't like waiting, then I will go out by myself." He turned to leave, to take off into the air. He hated arguments, and this guy, Blais, loved to start shit with him.

His upper arm was gripped and he was wheeled around, "Don't, okay?" Blais said, sighing, "I apologize, alright? We're just supposed to meet, y'know, Lucian in a few." He absently brushed the tip of his nose with the knuckle of his forefinger, and shook the shaggy, dark brown hair from his eyes, waiting for  Seventeen to change his mind.

"Fine," The android finally said, smiling cheekily at the carelessly handsome man, "But I'm driving."

He took a spot in the driver's seat of the sporty vehicle, while his friend grumpily took the passenger's seat. Seventeen loved getting behind the wheel of a hot ride and feeling the power of the engine just below his feet. Most hover-cars are governed with a shut-off switch if driven too fast, but he knew how to disable it in order to tap into the full potential of these powerful, anti-gravity cars.

Actually, in just the short time he began staying in Paris, he figured out how to adapt fairly quick. Most of the people spoke the old, out-dated language of French merely as a luxury, to feel more individual (which he learned was the case with nearly all the Lesser Cities on Earth). He didn't quite know much about the history behind such prideful behavior; the only clue he had was that country borders became obsolete after the Great Apocalypse over seven-hundred years prior.

Still, he learned fast. He met Blais after a confrontation with a particularly shady crowd his first night in Paris. A group of thugs thought they could take advantage of his obvious lack of knowledge of the area and tried to jump him. Of course, possessing inhuman strength has its advantages, and he easily the foreign-speaking punks were left running with their tails between their legs.

Apparently, however, he wasn't the only victim of the gangster's bullying. A very traumatized  Blaise had been held as a sort of hostage by the group, due to the fact that he was but a mediocre drug-dealer and dealt with the wrong sort. He told Seventeen that they had stolen his entire stash of amphetamines among other thing, pretending to be nothing more than customers.

Still pumping with adrenaline from his fight, and the insatiable urge for thrill building, Seventeen agreed to help the poor fool get his product back. Soon, the pair found the mob trying to peddle the drugs at a small park. Needless to say, after Seventeen was done, Blais was quite certain he'd never have an issue with thugs again.

That night, the android re-learned the joys of inhaling psychostimulant drugs, among other pleasures. The two men used each other, so they couldn't truly be called a couple, or even real friends. Seventeen kept the bullies away, and Blais kept him high and physically satisfied when the rare urge arose.

Though the chip in his brain kept his feelings and primal urges at bay, this repressing action seemed to falter when mind-altering substances (be they uppers or downers) were ingested. He enjoyed the freeing feeling, and indulged often.

Unfortunately, he had to keep this life of substance abuse very quiet. Though the battle against drugs is never-ending, this doesn't stop the feds from cracking down on illegal drugs. The Earth laws on drugs were extremely strict, and the consequences were naturally quite severe on offenders. Seventeen knew that there was nothing the police could do to keep him locked up, however it would be highly embarrassing to be a fugitive in a place he was particularly fond of, and with that, he kept his head low.

Soon the pair drove down a long stretch of road, passing an incredibly beautiful piece of ancient architecture. It was quite obvious the stone structure had been remodeled many, many times, but that didn't take away from the essential beauty the regal sight brought. La Sorbonne was the structure's proper name, and it was an elite university with an incredible reputation for teaching the best and brightest minds. The school was also rumored to be one of the oldest on Earth itself, surviving since far before the Great Apocalypse.

Seventeen had to admit, he rather admired the school almost as much as he admired Paris itself. He was actually curious about taking advantage of his ability to rapidly learn new things and taking up studies at the elite school. Since he aided Blais in his drug dealings, bringing in more revenue than his partner, he got to keep his own profits. He was quite sure he could raise enough money to hire someone to create a fake background for him, as well as pay for the school. He smirked at how easy things came to him since he knew the right people who also knew the right people.

Unfortunately, he had other tasks to take care of. He and Blais were meeting their drug-dealer, so daydreams about starting a respectable education had to be put on the back-burner. He didn't know exactly what this need for less violence was. He just knew that his old, destructive, rebellious way of life that he was so accustomed to had no meaning anymore. He could have fun without hunting down strangers and challenging them to fights.

Seventeen's eyes glanced at the building in the rearview mirror. He hoped that the school would be able to satisfy the mental stimulation that he so requires in order to enjoy his life. He loved his life thus far, but there was always room for more enjoyment.

***

In the next chapter: Trunks' attempts at recovering are proving slower than expected, especially to a certain Prince. Also, Seventeen finds out that a charming smile and pleasant disposition aren't always the keys to win people over at La Sarbonne, especially a particularly hateful roommate.












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