Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Deeper Than Colour -- The Kioku Story ❯ Old Wounds ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: Dragonball/Z/GT are not mine. I have no claim to them. If I had, I'd round up all my favourite stories on fanfiction.net and make them into episodes, movies, or T.V. specials! I love you all!

A/N: Well, here it is. This is the epic that followed "I'm Not Going to Leave You" (if you haven't read that, you probably should. It's not a plug -- it's just fairly necessary to fully understand the circumstances behind this story). Thank you to everyone who reviewed INGTLY, and who encouraged me to post this continuation -- I wasn't sure whether or not to leave it as a stand-alone fic.

This is the story of Piccolo's son's life. Starting from his birth, through to ??? (come on! Like I'm going to give it all away now!), it details his life in the alternate timeline. He sees the deaths of the Z fighters at the hands of the androids, and ... heh. Well, we'll see, won't we?

I wasn't sure how to categorize this in the summary. Throughout the story is action, drama, angst, pain, and the importance of friendship and family. Well, you'll have to decide what genre it belongs in.

One last note before I end my rambling (I do that a lot, don't I?): See if you can figure out where the title, "Deeper Than Colour" came from. It's not that difficult, of course, but *puts hand behind head and laughs* it'd be interesting to see if you get it.

Deeper Than Colour: The Kioku Story

Chapter One: Old Wounds

"Here, little one . . . there, there, sweetheart . . . drink up."

Low, motherly crooning filled the darkened bedroom as Son ChiChi sat in a rocking chair, cradling a tiny infant in her arms. She held a bottle filled with water in one hand, and she gently guided the nipple to the child's mouth. The baby responded, sucking greedily, draining the contents of the bottle in minutes.

"Good boy," ChiChi chuckled softly, rocking slowly. "You're such a sweetheart . . . yes, you are!"

Warm hands rested on her shoulders, making her jump, and ChiChi turned her head to see her husband looking down at her. "You make such a good mother," Goku remarked, a small, loving smile crossing his face.

"How could I not be?" ChiChi responded, still in the low-pitched voice she used to talk to the baby. "With such an adorable little boy? Yes, you are . . . yes, you are!"

Goku laughed, and he reached down a hand, holding it in front of the baby's face, and tickled the tiny antennae protruding from the high forehead. The child swatted at him, then he grabbed Goku's index finger with his own green ones. "He's got quite the grip on him," Goku observed, as the infant continued to keep its hold on his finger. "You can tell he's Piccolo's kid."

A dark look settled over ChiChi's face, and she shuddered, holding the helpless infant close. "Poor Piccolo . . . I wish he hadn't --" she broke off, not finishing the sentence, because she couldn't find an honest way to end it. If Piccolo had not died, if he hadn't sacrificed himself the way he had, her son, Gohan, would not be alive.

"I wish there had been some other way," ChiChi amended, sighing. "This poor little baby . . . he didn't even get to see his Daddy."

"I know," Goku came around in front, and he sat on the arm of the chair. ChiChi scooted over to give him room, and when Goku sat down, she moved onto his lap. "Piccolo wouldn't want you to grieve, ChiChi. He'd want you to be happy, for -- for his kid's sake."

ChiChi rested her head against Goku's broad chest, shivering. She didn't like to think of Piccolo's death . . . it must have been so horrible for him. "He doesn't even have a name yet. I don't know what to call him. Do you?"

"Nah," Goku shook his head, stroking the infant's smooth forehead with one finger. A wide grin split the tiny face, revealing two small, but sharp, fangs. "I couldn't even name mine, remember? Why don't you ask Gohan?"

ChiChi hesitated, and she bent down to plant a kiss on the child's cheek. He latched his fingers in her hair, and it took both her and Goku's combined efforts to pry him loose. "I don't know, Goku-sa. Gohan's been pretty secluded since Piccolo died. He won't even look at the baby."

"It's only been a week, hon. Give him time," a thoughtful look crossed Goku's face. "And maybe naming the kid will help him get to like him."

"Maybe," ChiChi conceded, and she rose, cupping the infant's head in one hand protectively, holding him to her. "All right, I'll go ask him. Where is he?"

"I think he's out in his tree house," Goku shrugged. "... I think, anyway."

"All right. Thanks, dear."

The baby batted at ChiChi's earrings as she carried him outside, and the human woman shook her head. This tiny life seemed so opposite of Piccolo -- happy, carefree, and at peace with the world. He was always smiling. But one thing was the same; the way he looked at her, and at Goku, with unbridled love and affection . . . Piccolo's eyes had held that exact expression when he would look at Gohan, when he thought no one was watching.

The child frowned, his small eyebrow ridges coming together as a tear fell from ChiChi's eyes to land on his face. "Poor Piccolo," ChiChi whispered again, and she stopped walking, looking up at the stars. She had hated Piccolo for so long, never forgiving him for taking Gohan away from her -- not only physically, but sometimes she felt Piccolo had stolen Gohan's heart, as well. Gohan often showed more caring toward his Namekusejin friend than he did his mother, and ChiChi had wept more than once because of that.

But through the past couple of years, ChiChi began to understand the rapport that existed between her son and his teacher, and eventually she learned to accept it. She even accepted Piccolo himself, inviting to stay whenever he wanted. Once, she had come outside and found him hovering in the air, watching the stars.

"What are you looking at?" ChiChi inquired softly.

The green-skinned alien inclined his head ever-so-slightly in her direction, but that was the only acknowledgment he gave of her presence. ChiChi took the hint, and turned to go. "Sorry, Piccolo. Didn't mean to bother you."

"I'm not looking at anything."

The voice startled her, causing her to walk back to him. "What do you mean?"

He pointed, his long, taloned finger indicated a section of space, dotted with sparkling stars. "There. That's where Namekusei should be, if Furiza hadn't destroyed it."

ChiChi didn't know what to say, so she did the next best thing -- she said nothing at all. Piccolo sighed, a quiet sound that ChiChi wasn't even sure she heard. "I should have been born there," Piccolo continued, his tone bitter. "But no, my stupid father had to come here. I had to grow up on a world that hates me, and doesn't care about me except that it needs me for the Dragonballs. I should have been born on Namekusei -- I would have fit in there."

Though she wanted to protest that Piccolo wasn't hated, ChiChi knew she couldn't. She had harboured that same emotion against him for years, before finally allowing to let it go. "Maybe, but I'm glad you were born here."

"Really," one corner of Piccolo's mouth quirked, an indication of surprise. "I thought you hated me. The whole chasing me around with a meat cleaver, yelling that you'd make me into Namek steak thing , kind of indicates a lack of feeling."

ChiChi laughed, embarrassed. "I was stupid, then. I didn't realize how much you meant to my Gohan-chan. If you hadn't been there, Piccolo, he . . ." she drew in her breath sharply, not even wanting to think of the possibility. "My baby would have died. I never thanked you for that, so . . . thank you. I really do appreciate you."

"Feh," Piccolo snorted, "At least I know where Gohan gets that stupid mushy side to him."

"Well, it's not from Goku, that's for sure," ChiChi shot back, and she rested her fingers on his arm for a second. His skin was surprisingly warm and dry -- somehow, she had expected it to be cold and slimy, like a reptile. Colour rose to her cheeks as she realized the prejudice of the assumption. "Honestly, though, I can't thank you enough. You've done more for my boy than anyone else could have."

"Yeah, whatever," Piccolo mumbled, and he returned his gaze to the heavens, but this time, ChiChi noted the expression on his face was no longer of wistful longing.

She smiled, and turned to go back inside. Just before she did, however, the wind blew two words back to her: "You're welcome."

ChiChi kissed the infant's soft forehead again, and she came to the base of the tree. "Gohan-chan?" she called. "Are you up there?"

"I'm sleeping up here, Mom," Gohan's voice floated down to her, and ChiChi winced. She recognized the thickness that accompanied the aftermath of despaired crying.

"Just come down for a minute, please, sweetheart? I want to ask you something."

Gohan sighed gustily, then there was a rustle of leaves and he dropped to the ground. He held some white material around his shoulders, and ChiChi first thought it to be blanket -- but then she identified it as Piccolo's cape, minus the weighted shoulderpads. Her throat tightened.

An inquisitive smile, though somewhat forced, had brightened Gohan's boyish face, but when he saw the infant cradled in his mother's arms, a scowl slammed into place over his features. "What did you have to bring it for?" he demanded roughly.

"Gohan!" ChiChi reprimanded him, but didn't scold him too harshly. It was still soon after Piccolo's death, and his passing was a raw wound in Gohan's heart. "He's the reason for my question. It's been a week now, and we still haven't named him. What do you think we should call him?"

Gohan's eyes flashed, a steely glint that ChiChi didn't like one bit. "How about 'Gomi'?"

"Garbage?" ChiChi repeated incredulously, the pity she felt toward him quickly evaporating in the face of her sudden anger. "What kind of name is that?"

"It's what it is," Gohan snarled, "A pathetic attempt to replace Piccolo, that's all. Why should I care what its name is?"

"I don't believe you!" ChiChi ejaculated, muscles tightening with rage. The tiny baby felt her tense up, and it must have scared him, because he began to wail. "It isn't his fault Piccolo died. He was Piccolo's gift to you, I'm sure of it -- he didn't want you to have to go through this alone."

Gohan's lip trembled, and for a second the mask of anger slipped, revealing the sad, frightened nine-year-old boy beneath. Seconds later, however, Gohan's eyebrows met in a defensive glare, and the vulnerability was gone. "Well, I guess Piccolo screwed up, huh, Mom?" his voice was tight and controlled, but the pain beneath it was obvious. "First mistake he ever made, if he thought some stupid brat could ever replace him."

The boy's chest heaved, and he let out a sound that sounded suspiciously like a sob. "Piccolo-san was my best friend, Mom. I'm not letting that . . . that . . . thing come between us," he flung his hands in front of his face, shoulders shaking. "Did you hear that? I said Piccolo was my best friend. I didn't mean it, Piccolo-san -- you're still my best friend! ...See?" he demanded, rounding upon his startled mother. "I don't want to forget Piccolo. And I don't want to get to know his son. Okay? Now leave me alone."

ChiChi frowned as a thought struck her. "Gohan-chan . . . it doesn't matter whether or not you miss Piccolo or you don't want his child to replace him -- you have a duty to this baby, to raise him as Piccolo raised you. Can't you see that? He left the baby with you, thinking you would take care of him, and train him. It's your obligation, as Piccolo's friend."

"You're taking care of it just fine, Mom."

"Gohan!" ChiChi was shocked, hardly believing what she was hearing. "This is so unlike you! What happened to my sweet, little boy, the one who always wanted to take care of everything himself?"

Gohan's mouth twitched, and his eyes hardened. "He died with Piccolo. I'm sorry if you don't understand that, but Piccolo-san is everything to me. I wish I could take care of the kid, but . . . I can't. It isn't Piccolo, no matter how much it looks like him. I'm sorry."

Wrapping Piccolo's cape firmly around himself, Gohan flew back into the tree. ChiChi stared after him in shock, startled that her sweet little boy could hold such hatred inside him for something so small and innocent. Who, at that moment, was screaming his little lungs out. ChiChi swallowed the bitterness that rose up inside her, and she rocked the infant in her arms, cooing softly.

"He didn't mean it, baby. Don't worry, sweetie . . . he's just upset about your Daddy, that's all," ChiChi looked up at the tree, where she could hear the sound of soft crying.

"Go to bed, Mom," Gohan called, his small voice trembling, and ChiChi sighed. There was nothing she could do for him tonight. He would have to deal with his grief in his own way, in his own time . . . and when that was over, she hoped he would come to accept Piccolo's child.

"Come, baby, it's time for you to go to bed," ChiChi lifted the as yet unnamed infant to her shoulder, patting his back as the miniature Piccolo burbled contentedly. "And we still have to find a name for you, too."

Goku frowned in sympathy as ChiChi came back inside, and he took the baby from her. "He didn't take it well, did he," the Saiyajin guessed, patting the baby's back. ChiChi shook her head, and she leaned against her husband's side. "I felt Gohan's energy rise, and I figured he got mad."

"He got mad, all right," ChiChi slipped her arm around Goku's waist, needing to feel close to someone. "Goku, we're losing him. Piccolo is everything to him, I - I don't know what to do."

"Me, neither," Goku admitted quietly. "Man, I wish Piccolo was here. I wish Gohan hadn't caught that virus, I wish . . ." he snorted derisively. "I wish too much, did you know that?"

They reached the bedroom, and the couple sat down on the bed. The baby curled up against Goku's chest, sleeping peacefully, and Goku smiled abstractedly at him. "It should've been me," Goku declared suddenly, and the self-loathing in his voice made ChiChi jump. "Not Gohan, not Piccolo . . . me. You heard the doctor -- the disease Gohan caught had never been seen on Earth before."

"So what?" ChiChi studied his face, searching for the reasoning behind his proclamation. "It doesn't mean it should have been you!"

"You don't understand!" Goku burst out, with such force that the child resting in his arms jumped, his face scrunching into a frown. "Oops," Goku muttered, "Sshh, kiddo'. Back to sleep, back to sleep," he waited until the infant relaxed before continuing. "I brought the disease. I'm the carrier."

"What?!"

"I brought it from Yardrat, ChiChi," Goku hung his head, his dark bangs brushing the top of the baby's head. "That's the only thing that makes sense. I can't think of any other way the virus could have come to Earth . . . I had to have brought it. No one else has been off-planet around here. It had to be me. Once Gohan figures that out -- and I know he will, he's a smart kid -- he'll never be able to forgive me, I know he won't . . . I killed Piccolo, by bringing that virus to Earth. O, ChiChi . . ." a low sob caught in his throat, and he began to shake.

ChiChi was powerless to do anything to help as her husband fought not to lose control. "Goku . . . I . . ." she broke off, knowing any words would be empty and meaningless. "Even if it's true, you can't take anything back. If you hadn't gone to Yardrat, you wouldn't have learned the Shunkanidou, and you wouldn't have been strong enough to defeat Furiza, when he came here. We'd all be dead then. Goku-sa, listen to me --"

But it wasn't ChiChi who brought Goku out of his stupor. Instead, it was the feel of a tiny child, who reached up a hand and touched his surrogate father's face lightly. "Ba-ba-ba?" he inquired sweetly, patting Goku's ear. The infant frowned when he felt the wetness on Goku's cheeks. "Ga-ba-da, ba-ba," the child entangled his fingers in Goku's hair, and raised himself up. Smiling, he placed a hand on each side of Goku's face, then planted a kiss right on the end of Goku's nose.

Goku clutched the child close to him, and he buried his face in the baby's shoulder and cried.

Eventually, Goku calmed down and became aware that ChiChi was rubbing his back, speaking to him in soothing tones, and the child was babbling nonsense. "I'm sorry," he muttered huskily, "I didn't mean to flip out like that," he groaned and leaned back, his head coming into contact with the wall. "I'm so sorry, Piccolo . . ."

"Speaking of whom, his son still needs a name," ChiChi reminded him gently.

"O yeah," Goku grimaced, "A name . . . aw nuts, ChiChi, I'm no good at this! Why don't we just call him Piccolo Jr.? No, wait," his forehead wrinkled in thought. "Technically, Piccolo was Piccolo Jr., so would that make his kid Piccolo Jr. Jr.?"

"Don't be ridiculous," ChiChi laughed, realizing the funny side to the dilemma. "'Piccolo Jr. Jr.'? What kind of a silly name is that? Why can't we give him a name that will honour Piccolo's memory without being so obvious?"

Goku's head snapped up. "That's it!"

"What?"

"Memory! Why don't we call the kid Memory?" Goku smiled affectionately at the infant, who copied the expression happily. "Yeah, that's a good name for you," he crooned. "Memory."

ChiChi nodded in agreement, and she tickled the baby under the chin. "Well, Kioku," she declared, "I think you've found your name. And a good, one, too. Your Daddy would be proud."

Kioku just laughed, and he waved his tiny arms in the air, grinning at nothing in particular.

******

"Look at them," Briefs Bulma remarked, watching the two children romp and play across the room. "They're so cute!"

ChiChi smiled, one hand curled around the mug of tea she was drinking. "Yeah, they are," she chuckled. Nine-month-old Kioku was toddling frantically after his friend Trunks, who was six months his senior. "Kioku's a handful, though, let me tell you that! He's already showing some telekinetic abilities."

"Really?" Bulma raised an eyebrow, regarding the small, green child who was giggling hysterically after falling on his bottom. "Like what?"

"Like nothing's safe from him," ChiChi shook her head and took a sip of her tea. "He wanted to play with Gohan's old sword the other day -- you know, the one Piccolo gave him? So I put it high up in the cupboard . . . Kioku stared at it, and then his eyes got a real funny look in them, and sure enough, the darn sword just floated out of the closet. If I hadn't caught it --"

Bulma laughed. "Piccolo Jr., here we come," she paused to call out warningly, "Hey, you two, keep where we can see you!"

"Don't wanna'," Trunks pouted, sticking out his bottom lip and crossing his arms in an amusing, yet frighteningly accurate, imitation of his father. "Wanna' go play with Papa in the trainer."

"He'd squish you," Bulma replied amiably, but something flashed in her eyes, and when she lifted a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, she brushed slightly at the corner of her eye. It was a subtle movement, but ChiChi noticed anyhow. "Don't get Daddy mad, okay, kid?"

Trunks' small face puckered with distaste, and he lifted one hand, palm out. As the two women watched, the toddler's hand began to glow, and soon it was surrounded by a pulsing, white aura of energy. "Papa teached me," Trunks declared proudly, mistaking the look of horror on his mother's face for awe. "He won't squish me."

"A-all right, Trunks," Bulma stammered, "Go see him, then."

Kioku stared at Trunks' hand, eyes nearly popping from his head in amazement, then he stuck out his own arm and attempted to imitate. When he couldn't, the miniature Namekusejin protruded his lower lip, which began to quiver. "Uh-oh," ChiChi muttered under her breath. "Here it comes . . ." As predicted, Kioku began to howl.

"Hey, baby, it's okay," ChiChi rose from her seat and crossed over to him, picking the child up and holding him close, rocking gently. "Baby, baby, baby . . . you'll learn that someday, I'm sure," she detected the bitterness in her voice when she said that, but couldn't repress it. "Just be patient."

Kioku pouted, then he buried his face in the juncture between ChiChi's neck and shoulder and gave a little sigh of contentment. ChiChi nearly melted, and she smiled as she sat down, still holding him. "You're a good boy, Kioku-chan," she told him, patting his head. He reached up and curled his fingers in her hair, a gesture that had brought him comfort since the day of his birth.

Trunks was staring in alarm at his friend, who seemed to have lost all interest in playing with him. Bulma noticed, and she snorted. "Always the egoist, just like your Dad, huh?" she stood and ruffled Trunks' hair playfully, ignoring the face he pulled at her. "Go play, squirt. I'm sure Kioku will come by later."

"Promise?" Trunks demanded arrogantly, arms still folded over his chest.

"Promise," ChiChi interjected, "He's just tired, that's all. Give him some time to take a nap, then he'll be right out with you."

Trunks considered this, then decided he accepted the excuse. Giving a short nod, the lavender-haired replica of Vegeta toddled off to find his father.

Once he had gone, ChiChi glanced over at Bulma, who was staring out the window, where the Gravity Trainer could be seen in the back yard. "You don't want him to fight, either?" she inquired softly.

Bulma shook her head, and her azure eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Of course not! Nothing good comes of fighting, no matter how exciting I used to think it was. Fighting is what made Vegeta who he is," she sighed, obviously not wanting to reveal any of the secrets her 'husband' had told her, but yearning to make ChiChi understand. "It . . . it turned him from an innocent little kid into a cold-hearted, jaded man who's had everything taken away from him. He doesn't trust anybody anymore, or if he does, he won't admit it. I don't want the same thing to happen to Trunks."

"Look what fighting did to Kioku's father," ChiChi rested her cheek on Kioku's head, marvelling at the softness of his skin. "According to Gohan, he was born with all his father's memories. Can you imagine that, Bulma? A sweet little baby, just like Kioku, with the memories of the deaths of thousands . . . no wonder Piccolo grew up the way he did. It's so sad."

Kioku babbled incoherently in his sleep, fingers flexing and uncurling like the feet of a happy cat. Bulma chuckled at the sight, and she cocked her head to one side. "He still doesn't talk yet?"

ChiChi shook her head, pretending she didn't notice the desperate excuse to change the topic. "Not really. I think he has made-up words for things, but I haven't recognized anything yet."

"Funny. Given Dende, I always thought Namekusejins were born talking and able to take care of themselves."

"Not much of an infancy, is it?" ChiChi agreed, smiling down at her adopted son. "Maybe Piccolo didn't want that, I don't know. Maybe he wanted his son to have a chance at the childhood he never got."

"Sounds like Piccolo," Bulma frowned, and she set down her mug. "Speaking of, how's Gohan holding up? I mean, it's been almost a year now. Is he any better?"

ChiChi shook her head slowly, and tears sprang to her black eyes. "No, he still hasn't gotten over it. I'm worried, Bulma! My Gohan-chan was such a sweet little boy, and now . . . now he's cold, and bitter, and he won't talk to me or his father. He won't even look at Kioku, and every time I try to talk to him about it, he says he wishes Kioku had never been born. I don't know what to do with him! At first I thought I'd leave him alone and let him come to terms in his own time, but it's been nine months already! Shouldn't he have begun to move on by then?"

Bulma shrugged, a tiny rise and fall of her shoulders, and she pushed her hair out of her eyes tiredly. "I wish I could tell you, ChiChi, but I can't. But . . ." she expelled her breath in a soft sigh. "You know . . . if I lost Vegeta, I'd never get over it."

"Same if I lost Goku again," ChiChi concurred, "With Piccolo gone, we can't use the Dragonballs anymore. I don't want to lose him."

"We won't," Bulma spoke up firmly, slamming her mug down on the table so hard that the tea sloshed over the side. "We've been at peace for almost three years now -- most of the other things that came after us had happened within a year of each other. I think we're safe this time."

They fell silent, staring into their mugs. So intent were they that both of them jumped when Kioku spoke up in his sleep. "To!"

ChiChi blinked a few times in confusion. "What?"

Kioku squirmed a little, and he yawned, though still not awake. "Toran," he mumbled.

"Toran?" a turquoise eyebrow lifted as Bulma leaned forward in her chair. "Is he saying what I think he's saying?"

"What?"

Kioku made a small sound like a cat mewing, then he opened his eyes and sat up, smiling at ChiChi. "Toran?" he piped up questioningly, holding out his arms. When ChiChi didn't understand, the toddler grew upset. "Toran!" he shouted.

Bulma began to laugh, covering her mouth with one hand. "He is!" she sputtered with amusement and disbelief. "He's trying to say it!"

"Say what?" ChiChi demanded, irked at her own ignorance, "Are you going to tell me, or just sit there laughing at me?"

Kioku hit her shoulder with a tiny fist, still annoyed. "Torankusu!" he yelled finally.

ChiChi's eyes widened. "Trunks?" she repeated him, and was rewarded by a nod and a set of high-pitched giggles. "Your first word is -- I don't believe this! You're Piccolo's kid, all right, you ornery little thing . . . no 'Mama', no 'Papa' . . . Trunks?!"

"Torankusu," Kioku clapped his hands together gleefully, then his expression grew serious as he concentrated on something.

"Better watch it," Bulma warned, grinning, "Once Trunks said 'mine!' he figured out how to talk from there. Just wait -- the kid'll be babbling like a broken record soon."

"...Where . . ." Kioku said slowly, rolling the words around on his tongue carefully, as though just now realizing how words went together. "Where . . . Torankusu?"

"He's with Bad Man Vegeta," Bulma told him, waggling an 'I told you so' eyebrow at ChiChi. "You're a smart kid, aren't you, Kioku-chan? You just had to work out how to make the sounds right."

Kioku squealed appreciatively, and he slid off ChiChi's lap. "Bai, bai," he waved, flicking his fingers at her. "Bai, bai! Torankusu!"

ChiChi sighed and slid down in her seat, throwing up her hands in defeat. "Yeah, yeah, go see Trunks. Don't say Mommy or anything . . ."

A chubby finger poked her in the knee, and ChiChi looked down. Kioku's head was tilted to one side, his face wrinkled in a puzzled frown. "Ma-ma?" he poked her again, and when he saw her smile, a matching grin lit up his features like a 100-watt lightbulb. "Mama!"

ChiChi got off the chair and knelt down next to him, where she scooped him up in a huge hug. "O, you're a darling, Kioku-chan! You know how to make me feel better, don't you!"

"Mama," was all Kioku said, patting her hair, but after a while he wriggled in her grip and asked, "Torankusu?"

"Yes, go on, you rascal," ChiChi set him down, rubbing a hand across his bald head affectionately. "You're a good boy, Kioku-chan. Go play."

Kioku trotted off obediently, but halfway through the door he stopped and pointed at himself, eyebrow ridges raised questioningly. ChiChi smiled, pointed to him, then enunciated, "Kioku."

He blinked a few times, then tried to repeat. "Kiku?" he scowled, knowing that wasn't right, and ChiChi could tell he was about to pitch a fit.

"Close enough, Kioku," she reassured him, trying very hard not to laugh. "You're very smart to pick that up. Kiku's a good nickname for you . . . you certainly do hear everything!"

"Kiku . . ." Kioku chewed his lower lip thoughtfully and flicked one of his antennae. "Kiku . . . see . . . Torankusu. Bai, bai, Mama."

"Sentences!" ChiChi exploded after he had gone. "He goes from no words at all to - to sentences!" she chuckled, and massaged her temples with her forefingers. "I think I'm getting a headache. He moves too fast for me."

Bulma winked understandingly, and reached across the table to pat ChiChi's hand. "That's kids for you. I bet Gohan was the same way."

"He was born talking," ChiChi corrected wryly, mouth twisting up in a crooked grin. "Or chattering, more like. By three years old he used to try to explain mathematical equations to Goku and me. He told me what Piccolo said once . . . something like 'We begin in a gasp and go out with a sigh . . . but you came out talking, and you'll never shut up until you're a big pile of bones underground'. Insulting, yes, but it's a pretty accurate description of Gohan when he was little."

A dark cloud settled over them at the mention of Piccolo and Gohan. "I don't know what to do," ChiChi admitted softly.

"Just wait," Bulma offered, "I know that's not much help, but honestly . . . the best healer for all things is time."

"I hope you're right," the dark-haired woman leaned back in her chair, shaking her head slowly. "I hope you're right."

******

"Hey, Piccolo-san," a quiet voice filtered through the leaves of the oak tree. "How're you doing up there? I hope you're not bored in the afterlife."

Son Gohan sighed, and leaned back against the wall of the tree house. He laced his fingers through his hair, tugging on the coarse, black strands until he winced. "It's been a long time, Piccolo-san . . . nine months, two weeks, and six days. I'm surprised I'm still alive, sir . . . it's been killing me, to have to spar by myself and everything. I've missed you telling me to shut up, or smacking me when I tried to hug you," he sniffled, and drew his hand under his nose.

"I'm freaking out," he admitted softly, "Dad tried to touch my hair the other day, like you used to, and I yelled at him. I don't mean to be rude, but it just happens that way. I can't handle living without you, Piccolo-san."

The lines of his face tightened, and his soft, boyish features hardened into a face that belonged to someone much older. "As for your kid . . . I'm sorry I can't love him like I did you, but honestly . . . it would be like if I died, and Mom had another kid, and everyone expected you to pretend he was me. It's so hard -- he looks just like you, but that doesn't mean he is you. Mom doesn't understand that," Gohan's voice thickened until the words came out almost in a snarl. "Dad doesn't understand, Grandpa . . . nobody understands. I know it's been a long time now, but that doesn't make it easier!"

Gohan drew his knees up to his chest and buried his head in his arms. "I almost killed myself yesterday," he said, voice muffled. "I powered up, and I had the blast pointed at my chest and everything . . ." he sighed. "But then I realized I was being weak, just like you always told me not to. And I knew you'd be mad at me and never talk to me again if I did that . . . so I didn't. I just have to keep living by myself. But I can't take this anymore, Piccolo-san! I need you, I want you back! I don't want some little baby to take your place; he can't spar with me and insult me and do all the things that you did. I can't . . . I just can't . . ."

Gohan broke off, and he held a hand to his heart, remembering the fire that had seemed to burn there during his illness. A choked-off sob rose in his throat, and he pressed his lips together firmly. "I don't mean to be weak, Piccolo-san. I try to be strong, but it's so hard, I -- everything seems so much different with you not around. I can't even watch sunsets anymore without crying. I know that's being a sissy, but I can't help it, really, I can't."

The boy snorted, and, flinging the cape securely around his shoulders, he flew down to the ground. "I'm gonna' try something, Piccolo-san," he whispered, "But you can't tell anybody. If it doesn't work, nobody will know, but I hope it does."

He tiptoed into the house, and was gratified to hear snoring coming from the bedrooms. His Grandpa slept like a log from dusk till dawn, as did his father -- they wouldn't be the problem. His mother, on the other hand, woke if the tap dripped in the kitchen downstairs.

Instead of walking, Gohan levitated a few inches above the floor until he got to his parents' room, and he stole over to the cradle silently. He was sleeping -- Gohan refused to acknowledge that Kioku had a name -- and Gohan reached into the cradle and picked him up. It felt like he was holding a monster, but Gohan repressed a shudder. Wrapping the toddler in Piccolo's cape, Gohan began to sneak back out of the room.

"Where go?" Kioku's clear voice piped up, and Gohan froze. He didn't know Kioku could talk!

"Out," he hissed, "But only if you're quiet. If you aren't, I'm putting you back in bed!"

Kioku nodded solemnly, eyes wide. "Kiku hush," he clapped both tiny hands over his mouth obediently.

If the kid hadn't been Piccolo's attempted replacement, Gohan would have thought the gesture cute. It was exactly what he used to do when Piccolo-san told him to be quiet . . . "Good. Stay that way until I tell you to."

"'Kay," Kioku said through his fingers.

Across the room, Mom stirred in her sleep, then her eyes opened. Gohan swallowed the swear word he almost said, and covered Kioku's mouth. "Hello?" Mom murmured sleepily, "Is that you, Gohan?"

"Wh-what?" Dad asked, his words barely intelligible. "ChiChi . . . what's the matter, hon?"

"I thought I heard something."

"Prob'ly jus' Gohan rolling over or somethin'," Dad mumbled, and he put his arm around Mom, pulling her close. "G' back to sleep."

Mom shrugged and relaxed, falling asleep soon after.

Gohan released his breath slowly, in a silent sigh of relief. "Kiku hush good?" Kioku inquired in a stage-whisper, but Gohan ignored him, flying downstairs and out the front door. Once outside, Gohan began to fly to the top of Mt. Paozu.

"Where go?" Kioku insisted, glancing about him in obvious awe. His large eyes were wide as he struggled to take in everything at once. "Gogo, where?"

Gohan grimaced at the child's mispronunciation of his name, but didn't comment. "Be patient, will you?" he snapped, "You'll see soon enough."

"M'kay," the child seemed content with that answer, and he snuggled close to Gohan, leaning in to the warmth of Gohan's body.

Gohan stiffened, and he held Kioku away from him. "Don't do that! If you cuddle up to me again, I'll drop you, and I'm not kidding."

Kioku's small face scrunched up like he was trying not to cry, and he stared up at Gohan with watery eyes. "Kiku bad?"

"Yeah," Gohan snarled, his lip curling. "Kiku bad."

"Why?" Kiku jutted out his lower lip in a confused pout, but Gohan refused to be drawn in. "Kiku not be bad. Kiku hush good. Why Gogo mad? Kiku like Gogo."

"Well, I don't like you, so there you go."

A tear slipped down Kioku's smooth cheek, but Gohan remained unmoved. He was a little surprised, actually, that he could be so callous toward such a little kid, but things had changed. Lots of things. Gohan wasn't the innocent little kid who used to run up to Piccolo-san and give him hugs -- with Piccolo-san's death, something had happened to him. He was harder now, a wall forming around his heart. He had let Piccolo-san in, closer than anyone else, and now his best friend was gone. He wasn't about to do anything to let that happen to him again.

The kid was still crying, and he swiped at his eyes with chubby fingers. "Kiku not bad," he insisted softly, though Gohan wasn't listening. "Why Gogo say? Why . . ." he frowned, trying to find the words. "Why Gogo . . . mad . . . Kiku?"

This was too much for Gohan. He jerked to a stop in midair and grabbed Kioku by the scruff of the neck, holding him in the air in front of him. "Why? You want to know why? Because I don't want you. I want your Daddy back. Do you understand that?"

Kioku shook his head slowly. "Papa? Papa home," he folded his hands and rested his cheek on them, imitating sleep.

Rage built up inside Gohan like air filling a balloon, and an energy aura flared up around him as the strain became too great to control. Kioku squeaked in surprise, but didn't get the chance to comment. "My Dad is not your Papa!" Gohan shouted, feeling tears prick his eyelids, but the exertion of his ki dried them before they could fall. "Don't you get it? My Mom is not your 'Mama', either. I'm not your brother. I don't want you to be my brother!"

Kioku's lip quivered, then he lost the battle with his self-control and began to bawl. "No . . . no . . . Gogo bad! Gogo say bad! Kiku want Mama!"

"Too bad," Gohan hoisted the toddler under one arm and resumed his flight, not caring that Kioku was still crying. The old Gohan never would have sat back and watched a baby cry, much less cause one to, but the old Gohan was gone. He had been soft-hearted, weak . . . and look where that got him.

Well, I guess you were right, Piccolo-san, Gohan thought grimly, I am a sissy. You were right all along, sir . . . feelings do make you weak. Well, I'm not going to do that anymore. I'm smart now.

At last, he reached the top of the mountain. Touching down lightly, Gohan all but dropped Kioku and glared at him warningly. "Don't go anywhere. If you fall, I'm not sure I could catch you in time," Kioku nodded fearfully and clung to Gohan's pant leg, scared out of his crying fit. "And don't start crying, either."

"No, no. No cry."

Gohan turned away from him then, fixing his gaze on the sky. His father had a mild talent for telepathy, explaining it as a Saiyajin thing, and this trait had been passed down to Gohan. His mental bond with Piccolo had only strengthened the technique, and Gohan had spent time fine-tuning his telepathic abilities. Now, he closed his eyes and concentrated. "Kaio-sama?" he called.

What? came the voice in his mind, and Gohan smiled triumphantly. Son Gohan, is that you?

"Yeah, it's me. Can you do me a favour?"

Depends on what it is, son. What's up?

"I want you to bring Piccolo-san back to Earth."

An undignified squawk was Kaio-sama's response as the martial arts master nearly choked. Gohan, I can't do that! He's dead, remember? It's not like he's here on vacation.

"So what? Contact the Namekusejins and tell them to get Porunga to wish him back."

Kaio-sama sighed, and Gohan's heart froze. What was the problem now? Gohan . . . I'm sorry. Piccolo died of a disease -- that's a natural cause, and not even Porunga can wish back someone who died of natural causes. I'm really sorry.

"I know," Gohan opened his eyes and looked down at Kioku, who was lying on his back, staring up at the stars with rapt fascination. "But can't you ask him to make a trade? I've got his kid here, Kaio-sama; can't you take him instead and bring Piccolo-san back? You know the Shunkanidou technique, so it wouldn't be hard. You could just come here, get the kid, go to heaven, get Piccolo-san, and make the trade. Right?"

A lengthy pause ensued, during which Gohan counted his heartbeats in an approximation of how long it lasted. Ten heartbeats later, Kaio-sama slowly replied, I can't do that, either. It isn't that simple. Piccolo is dead, Gohan. I can't just take his child to heaven instead. They'd both be dead if that happened, and I don't think that's what you want. I think you should just learn to accept it, son. I'm really sorry.

"Yeah," Gohan tried to swallow, but the lump in his throat prevented him. "Me, too. Well, never mind, then."

The connection was broken, and Gohan was once more alone on the mountaintop. Acrid tears of disappointment welled up in his eyes and began to trickle down his face, his eyes stinging. "Come on, kid, we're leaving," he announced, but only soft, infant snoring answered him. Gohan sighed in frustration and picked Kioku up, tucking him under one arm as the child continued to sleep. "Let's go back home," he shook his head, and before he flew away, Gohan threw one last look at the blazing sky above. "I tried, Piccolo-san. I'm sorry."

Kioku was still sleeping when Gohan placed him back in his cradle and reluctantly covered him with a blanket. A heavy weight settled upon Gohan's shoulders, and he felt guilty all of a sudden -- the same kind of feeling he got when he would turn around to find Piccolo-san glaring disapprovingly at him, and Gohan had to remind himself not to glance over his shoulder. Piccolo-san didn't need to be there in the physical plane for Gohan to know when his sensei would have scolded him for something.

What did you think you were doing? Gohan could almost hear Piccolo's voice ringing accusingly. That's my son, and you tried to kill him! I didn't go through all that trouble just so you could try to send the kid right back where he came from.

Gohan's face crumpled as he again went through the futile motions of holding back tears, and the hot, salty liquid spilled over down his cheeks. "Piccolo-san," Gohan whispered brokenly, "I didn't mean to . . . I didn't realize that I'd . . ." he stared at the slumbering toddler, who was completely oblivious to what had almost happened to him. "I didn't think that he would die if Kaio-sama took him away. I didn't want him to die, I just wanted you back . . . I know he's your kid and I should protect him, but every time I see him, I feel like I'm losing you all over again! How much more of this can I take before I explode, Piccolo-san?"

But there was no answer. Gohan sighed softly, knowing he had only imagined the voice, and without thinking, he reached out a hand. Slowly, tentatively, Gohan stroked Kioku's forehead with his fingers, gently brushing the child's antennae away from his face. "I'm sorry, Kioku," Gohan whispered, calling the infant by name for the first time. "I don't think I'll ever love you, but . . . for Piccolo-san's sake, I won't hate you anymore. Okay? How's that?"

Kioku stirred in his sleep, mumbling something about 'Torankusu', and he flailed his hands about for a few seconds in an unconscious stretch. Gohan's eyes widened as Kioku's hand latched onto his index finger, and the infant drew Gohan's hand close to his chest, snuggling up to his arm. "Hey!" Gohan hissed, "Let go!"

The child didn't hear him, and he continued to slumber peacefully. Gohan realized there was no way to extricate himself without waking Kioku up and probably his parents as well, so he blew out his breath in defeat. Hooking a chair leg with his foot, Gohan dragged the piece of furniture over to himself and sat down, resting his arms on the edge of the cradle. "Silly kid," he murmured, and dropped off to sleep.

******

ChiChi yawned lazily and opened her eyes, feeling the warm sunlight creeping in through the window. She smiled a little as she noticed Goku's arm around her waist, and she was about to cuddle up against him when something caught her gaze. "Goku!" ChiChi cried in an excited whisper, elbowing her husband in the stomach. "Goku, look!"

"Mmph -- what?" Goku muttered, opening one eye cautiously. "Aw, ChiChi, it's still early!"

ChiChi rolled her eyes, and she slapped his chest lightly. "Look, you dolt! Look at Gohan and Kioku!"

Goku narrowed his eyes in an attempt to focus his bleary, half-asleep vision, then his eyes widened. "Wha -- are you sure that's Gohan? What the heck happened?"

Gohan sat on a chair next to the cradle, his head pillowed on his arms. One hand rested inside the cradle, and Gohan's index finger was gripped by four tiny, green ones. Kioku's small face was lit by a brilliant smile, even as he slept . . . and Gohan? Gohan was not smiling, and no hint of affection touched his features -- but gone was the hatred that had twisted his childlike face for the past nine months. His face was bereft of the hard, taut lines that had all but erased the youthful softness from his features, and a kind of calm neutrality had replaced the pain. For the first time in nine months, Gohan seemed at peace.

"Finally," Goku breathed, drawing ChiChi close to him in a relieved embrace. "I think he's gonna' be okay."

ChiChi smiled and leaned in close to Goku's warmth, still watching her son sleep. "I think so too, Goku."

The dark-haired woman shot a glance out the window, where a sparrow was fluttering on the windowsill, fluffing its wings and chirping. I hope you can see this, wherever you are, Piccolo, she thought, Our Gohan has learned to trust again. He hasn't forgotten you; don't worry about that . . . but he isn't killing himself over you anymore. I think he'll be able to love your son, in time. I still thank you for giving him life, Piccolo -- and now, I think he's finally ready to thank you, too.

"C'mon, Goku," ChiChi nudged Goku again. "Time to get up. Breakfast."

"BREAKFAST?"

******

Far away, in the dimension commonly referred to as the "Other World," an elfin-eared, green-skinned figure smiled.

******

So there you have it. I realize there wasn't much action or whatnot in this chapter, but I decided I had to write how everyone -- namely Gohan -- sorted out their lives after Piccolo's death, and I wanted to give the readers an idea of Kioku's character before jumping straight into the drama. So I guess this chapter would fit in the "angst/general" section, then.

Ah, yes. "Kiku" is the verb "to hear, to listen." I figured that was a good nickname for Kioku, because a.) it's easier for the li'l tyke to say, and b.) little kids do hear everything!

Another note: In case you didn't know (not likely, but hey!) "Deeper Than Colour" comes from a quote from Piccolo to Gohan. While waiting for Goku to return from Yardrat, Gohan inquired as to why Piccolo didn't return to Neo-Namekusei with the other Namekusejins, and Piccolo replied that the Earth had become his home. He said that "connections between people run deeper than where they're from or what colour skin they have," and I liked that quote. I thought it fit this story nicely, with Kioku having to become part of the Son family when he is obviously of a different race.

Last note: I'm not sure when the next chapter will be out -- this is the first time I've ever posted a story I haven't finished writing. But I wanted the readers to have more say in this one -- so I'm open to suggestions. Hint for the next chapter: Kioku's 1st birthday, May 12th. Does that particular date ring a bell? It should -- think Mirai timeline. Uh-oh . . . what will happen at Kioku's birthday brunch? Stay tuned and find out!

Okay, so maybe that wasn't the last note -- this one is for Cat, who reviewed INGTLY: I realize Gohan reacted to Kioku in exactly the way you said for him not to, but I think I explained it well enough to make it believable . . . hopefully. And he did change his mind at the end. Tell me if it still was out of character, all right? Thanks!

And no, everyone, the rest of the chapters will not have as many author's notes. *Whew!*