Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Deeper Than Colour -- The Kioku Story ❯ Memories, Herbs, and Decisions. ( Chapter 3 )

Disclaimer: Not mine. If I owned the series, I'd give the humans and Namekusejins an ascended level, kind of like Super Saiyajin. If there was one, Kuririn and Piccolo would have transformed about six times by now! Give the Saiyajins all the excuses to get powerful . . . sheesh. (I don't count Piccolo's fusing with Kami-sama as an ascended level, either. Even though he did kick butt for a while ... heh. ^^)

A/N: I'm back! I'm not sure when I said I would update, but knowing me, I'm most likely late. Sorry if I am. This chapter is shorter (for me ... ^_^) and again, lacking in action, but I thought after the last one it would be too much to have another grisly chapter right off. There's a bit of a surprising twist near the end, though . . . Kioku and Trunks decide to do something . . . well . . . rather unexpected. Enjoy! As always, feedback is appreciated.

Deeper Than Colour: The Kioku Story

Chapter Three: Memories, Herbs, and Decisions

Laughing wildly, he watched as the humans turned tail and ran. "It's a monster!" they screamed. "A demon!" "It's the devil!" "He'll kill us all!"

"You're all correct," he grinned, showing his fangs. Sometimes he wished he could eat, just so he could tear into their carcasses and walk around with blood on his fangs. It would be worth the inconvenience just to see the looks on their faces. "I am a demon, and I am going to kill you. All of you!"

Panic ensued as the humans scrambled over top of each other in their haste to get away. Several of them were trampled as their fellow men ran them over, crushing them to death. He cackled, pointing at the broken bodies, laughing as some of the humans shot him looks of contempt and loathing.

"All right, time's up!" he called gleefully, holding up a hand. "I'll see you all in hell. It'll be nice to have company!"

The energy blast ripped through the crowd of people, disintegrating them to nothing but dust. He continued to laugh as their screams evaporated with their bodies . . .

With a loud shout, Son Kioku bolted out of the covers, clutching his head in his hands. "Not real," the three-year-old reminded himself, "It's just a dream. I'm right here."

Tears filled the boy's large eyes and he pressed his fingers to his heart, trying to forget the ache that burned there. The dreams were so real that they felt like actual memories . . . but it was strange. Even though Kioku was the one having the dream and he was the one doing the actions, he knew it wasn't himself . . . yet, it was him, as well. It felt like he was in someone else's body and inside someone else's mind, but at the same time it was his body and mind. All in all, it turned the poor boy's brain in circles.

He'd begun to have those dreams in the daytime, even when he wasn't sleeping. Sometimes, things he did - little things, like slapping mosquitoes, or if he scraped his knees and saw blood - caused the pseudo-memories, or whatever they were, to come surging back with frightening frequency.

"I hate these dreams," Kioku whispered, staring up at the ceiling. Papa had painted glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, some in the shapes of real constellations, but some made up ones, as well; if Kioku looked up, he could see Papa's head with its messy hair, and Vegeta-san's spiky hair, and Kuririn-san's head with its funny dots on it . . . and Papa Piccolo-san, with his pointy ears and antennae . . . the little Namekusejin tore his gaze away, not wanting to cry. It was bad enough having nightmares without thinking of all his friends.

Kioku whimpered, and he drew his knees up to his chest. Whatever was happening to him, he didn't like it!

Next to him, Trunks frowned in his sleep, then stirred and sat up slowly. "Wha- . . . ?" the lavender-haired boy looked at his best friend, blinking in confusion, then comprehension dawned. "You gots nightmares again?"

Kioku nodded shakily, and Trunks sighed in sympathy. Since the deaths of the Z-senshi, the Son family had moved in to Capsule Corp., since their house had been destroyed by the jinzouningen. The two boys had opted to share a room, the deaths of their fathers having brought them even closer together, and they took what comfort they could in the knowledge that they had both lost someone they cared for deeply. If the children had been close friends before, they were all but inseparable now.

"It's scary, Trunks-kun," Kioku admitted, "It's like there's another . . . another me inside me. And I - I kill people!"

"What'cha do this time?" Trunks inquired quizzically, propping his head against the pillows and lacing his fingers behind his head.

"I killed a whole group of people," Kioku shuddered. "Hundreds an' hundreds of them."

"Well, that's kinda' cool," Trunks raised an eyebrow. "I mean, at least you're really strong, right?"

Kioku shook his head vehemently, and he tugged on his ear in frustration. "It's fun to be that strong, but . . . you didn't hear them scream. It was awful! I don't ever wanna' hear that again!"

"You didn't tell Gohan-san yet, did you," Trunks folded his arms, frowning in disapproval when Kioku winced guiltily. "Why not? Maybe he can help you."

"How?" Kioku pulled the pillow out from behind him and hugged it to his chest, resting his chin on top of it. "Gogo gots enough problems. He doesn't need me bugging him. 'Sides, he's busy fighting the jinzouningen. He doesn't got time to talk to me about silly dreams."

Trunks scowled, his lavender eyebrows knitting together. "I don't like that. He's your big brother! He's s'posed to help you," he nodded once in decision, then grabbed Kioku by the arm and jumped off the bed. "We're gonna' go see him right now."

"But he's sleeping!" Kioku protested, stumbling once when his pajama feet skidded on the smooth, metal floor. Even though Trunks kidded Kioku about wearing "footie pajamas" when he wasn't a baby anymore, Kioku liked them. They were purple, with the sigil of his first name on the front, and last name on the back. His Mama had made them.

"Who cares?" Trunks scoffed, still pulling him along. Trunks was clad in an oversized Capsule Corp. t-shirt that hung down to his knees, and white shorts. "You gotta' talk to him. Anyway, I'm up, you're up, so why shouldn't Gohan-san be up?"

Kioku gave up trying to resist yet another of his friend's schemes, and the two of them padded up the stairs and down the hallway to Gohan's bedroom. As they passed Kioku's mother's room, the sound of quiet crying drifted into the hall. Kioku's mouth tightened. "Mama's crying in her sleep again," he sighed.

Trunks patted him on the back comfortingly, and Kioku paused a moment in the doorway, peering in at his mother. Mama had cried herself to sleep ever since Papa died, but she didn't think Kioku knew. Kioku never woke her up, because he didn't want her to find out. Mama tried so hard to be strong that it would be mean for Kioku to let on that he knew how much she was hurting.

After a time, the boys reached Gohan's room. The almost-teenager was sprawled on his bed, his cheek buried in the pillow, the covers falling off the side of the bed. Trunks giggled a little when he heard Gohan snoring, but Kioku didn't laugh. Something about Gohan sleeping, with his black hair falling over his eyes, making him look almost like a little kid again, jogged something in Kioku's mind.

He watched Gohan sleep, listening to the child's soft snores, seeing the tiny chest rise and fall in a gentle rhythm. All kinds of emotions rushed through him, threatening to swamp him, and he shook his head, trying to clear his mind, but it didn't work.

The firelight flickered over Gohan's pale skin, and the boy sighed in his sleep. Suddenly, he extended a hand, tentatively, stretching it toward Gohan. The boy moved and he stopped, then hesitantly, reached out again and touched Gohan's hair, marvelling at its softness. He stroked the boy's forehead gently, ruffling his hair, wondering at the boy's innocence.

Don't worry, kid, he thought, and the words startled him - as did the conviction behind them. I won't let anything happen to you. I promise.

Satisfied, he rumpled Gohan's hair one last time, then withdrew his hand.

"Kiku! Kiku! Hey, where are you?"

Kioku shook himself, and when he came to his senses, he realized Trunks was shaking him, his face only a few inches away. "Good grief, you crazy!" Trunks covered up his obvious relief by giving Kioku a shove. "Whatcha' trying to do, creep me out? Don't do that!"

"Do what?" Kioku blinked, wondering what was the matter with Trunks. "What'd I do?"

"Your eyes went all funny!" Trunks' own eyes were wide, laced with panic. "An' I was calling an' calling, an' you didn't hear me! What happened, did you have another one?"

Kioku nodded, forgetting for a moment their plan to wake Gohan. "Kinda'. But it wasn't a bad one, this time. And it felt like somebody else. I wasn't mean this time. I was with Gogo, and he was only a little bit bigger than us, and I said I would protect him . . . and I - I petted his forehead."

Trunks' eyebrows rose, an indication of incredulity. "You what?"

"No, I really did!" Kioku shuffled forward to stand close beside Gohan's bed, and he closed his eyes, trying to remember what he had done in the 'dream'. He reached out and stroked Gohan's forehead with his tiny hand, lifting his bangs off his face. "I did that," Kioku explained.

Trunks still looked skeptical, then Gohan stirred in his sleep. "Piccolo-san?" he murmured, and both boys jumped, glancing at each other in surprise.

"Piccolo-san?" Trunks whispered. "You don't think you've been dreaming about your Papa, do you?"

"No," Kioku hissed back. "Papa Piccolo-san wasn't mean. I don't think he'd do all those evil things like before."

"But you said it felt like somebody else this time," Trunks argued, planting his hands on his hips. For a second, he looked like his mother when she tried to prove a point. "Maybe Piccolo-san was the one with Gohan-san, and his Papa was the bad one who killed everybody."

"Why would I dream about them?" Kioku was so caught up in his discussion that he forgot he still had his hand on Gohan's head, until he looked back and saw that Gohan's eyes were open. He drew his hand back, feeling guilty, though he didn't know why.

Gohan touched his forehead lightly, and his mouth tightened with sadness. "What did you do that for?" he demanded of Kioku, drawing the covers up around himself protectively. "I sure hope you don't think that was funny."

Kioku shook his head vehemently. "No, no, Gogo! I wasn't trying to be funny. I just . . . I was trying to figure things out."

The hurt drained from Gohan's face, and he shook himself with a visible effort. "Sorry, Kioku. What kind of things?"

All of a sudden the whole situation seemed petty and silly, overall a poor reason for waking Gohan up in the middle of the night. Scuffing his pajama-clad feet on the floor, Kioku hung his head, embarrassed. "Never mind. I'm sorry, Gogo. I didn't mean to wake you up. Good night."

He started to leave the room, but Trunks yanked him back by the seat of his pj's. "I don't think so," Trunks dragged him across the room to Gohan's bed. "Gohan-san, Kiku has been having dreams and stuff. I think he's dreaming about Piccolo-san and Piccolo-san's father."

Gohan cocked his head to one side in surprise, and he reached down and lifted Kioku and Trunks up onto the bed. Kioku crawled under the covers and snuggled up next to Gohan, and Gohan put an arm around him. Trunks curled up next to Kioku, lying perpendicular to him with his head on Kioku's stomach. "What do you mean by dreams, kiddo?" Gohan asked, rubbing a hand across Kioku's bald head. "Are you remembering stuff?"

"Yes," Kioku nodded, and he told Gohan of all the 'dreams' he could remember. It took some time, and the numbers on Gohan's digital clock kept clicking higher. By the time Kioku finished, Trunks was fast asleep and snoring, and Gohan tossed a corner of the blanket over him.

"I wondered when that would happen," Gohan mused, to Kioku's confusion. Kioku stared up at him, not understanding, and Gohan smiled abstractedly. "It's something that can happen with your species, the Namekusejin. Sometimes, when a kid is born, he's born with the memories of his father. That's what happened to Piccolo-san, and it was awful. He didn't want you to suffer like he did, so he didn't give you his. If he had, you would have ended up with memories of not just his life, but his father's, too."

"So why am I getting them now?"

Gohan looked thoughtful, but after a while he shrugged. "I'm not Namekusejin, so I can't tell - wait! When did you start getting these dreams, or whatever?"

Kioku grimaced as he thought back to the first time he'd had one of his memories, when he had been crying over the death of his Papa, Goku. "When Papa died, and I saw the big hole in his chest. I remembered a kid flying through me, and I died. After that, they came almost every night. And sometimes in daytime, if I see blood or something. Or when I watched you sleeping."

Gohan winced at that last part, and Kioku patted his hand in apology. "I'm sorry, Gogo. I didn't know Papa Piccolo-san used to do that. I don't want to make you sad."

"Hey, kiddo', that's okay," Gohan sighed, and he chucked Kioku under the chin. "You didn't know. But it sounds to me like seeing Dad . . . die . . . it . . ." Gohan closed his eyes, and his arm tightened around Kioku involuntarily. Kioku wiped at his own eyes, which had begun to mist over, and he chewed on his lip until his fangs bit through the skin and he began to bleed.

"Anyhow," Gohan sniffed loudly, "Maybe that's what triggered it. At any rate, you've got some of Piccolo-san's memories - that's what seeing me at the campfire was from. But all the bits about killing people, and about the kid flying through you, those were memories from Piccolo Daimaou. Trunks is right, he was Piccolo-san's father. Well, kind of."

"I don't want them," Kioku proclaimed, punching the covers. "I don't want the memories! They're mean!" he paused, thinking back to the one from his birth father. "Well, maybe not all. But I don't want them anyway. It's too weird. It's hard to tell who's me and who's someone else sometimes."

Gohan nodded sympathetically and was about to say something when the radio beside his bed crackled and came to life. Bulma had designed it so it would pick up emergency broadcasts about the jinzouningen and would turn on automatically. "This is Connie Fraser, from Z-FM. Watertown is under attack! The jinzouningen struck a few minutes ago, and are now devastating the city! No one knows how long the city will last under such an onslaught. All around me, buildings are collapsing and exploding, and people are dying everywhere. Wait, I can see one of the jinzouningen now. He's looking at me, and - oh no!" The report ended in a gurgling scream, and the sound gave way to static.

"No!" Gohan flung off the blankets and sprang out of bed, accidentally knocking the two toddlers to the ground. "Why don't they give up?" he wondered angrily, yanking a training suit over his t-shirt and boxers, hopping around on one foot and cursing as he struggled to pull on his boots. "They can't just leave us alone, can they?"

He threw open the window and had one foot on the sash when he turned around and looked back at Kioku. "I'll talk to you later, okay, kid?"

Kioku nodded fearfully, wishing as he did every time Gohan took off to fight that there was some way he could help. "Okay. Be careful, Gogo."

Gohan nodded curtly, and he flared into Super Saiyajin with a short yell. "Tell Mom I'll be fine," he ordered, then shot into the sky and was gone.

"Aww," Trunks muttered sulkily, crossing his arms. "We never get any fun."

"Fun?!" Kioku repeated incredulously, helping to disentangle Trunks from the bedclothes. "Trunks-kun, Gogo could get killed out there! That's not fun!"

"They killed my Papa, and Goku-san," Trunks scowled blackly, resembling his father. "It would be fun to kill them for that. I wish I was strong enough. Then I'd teach them not to mess with a Saiyajin."

"Or a Namekusejin," Kioku added, giving in to Trunks' words. The loss of his adoptive father was still a painful wound in his heart, one he didn't think would ever heal. "But we gotta' wait. We gotta' get Gogo to train us, so we can be as strong as him. When we're strong, then we can fight the jinzouningen. And we'll beat them. We'll turn 'em into microwaves!"

Trunks giggled at the thought. "We'll turn 'em into toilets," he chuckled.

"Into microwaves and toilets," Kioku decided gleefully. "And little action figures of themselves, and then we'll put them in the microwaves and flush them down the toilets!"

The two boys burst out laughing, but their humour was short-lived as their mothers ran into the room. "Where's Gohan-chan?" ChiChi, Kioku's mother, demanded anxiously. She was wearing a long, white nightgown and her hair was down, and her face was scared-looking and as pale as her clothing. "He went off to fight again, didn't he!"

"Yes, Mama," Kioku reported, and the expression of fear and sadness on his mother's face sobered him up immediately. "He said to tell you that he'll be okay."

"That's what he always says," Mama wiped at her eyes, which were filling with tears. "And the next morning, he comes back all beat up," she buried her face in her hands. "Goku-sa always said he'd be careful, too, and now he . . . he's . . ."

Bulma-san looked alarmed, and she put her arm around Mama's shoulders, hugging her. "Hey, ChiChi, it's all right. Gohan will be fine. He's a strong fighter, and he knows what he's doing."

Mama continued to cry, her body shaking, and Kioku felt scared. He never knew what to do when grownups cried; it was like something that wasn't supposed to happen. Before the deaths of his Papa and his friends, Kioku had thought grownups could handle everything. Now, he knew better.

"I don't want to lose him, Bulma," Mama's voice trembled like it was being tossed around in the wind. "I've already lost my Goku . . . if Gohan-chan died, I don't know what I'd . . ."

Apprehensively, Kioku shuffled forward to stand next to Mama. He always risked being chastised when he tried to talk to his mother when she cried; sometimes she hugged him, but other times she told him to leave her alone, and Bulma-san would chase him and Trunks out of the room.

This time, however, Mama picked Kioku up and held him close, pressing her face into his shoulder, almost as if he was a teddy bear. "Mama?" Kioku piped up timidly. "You want me to sleep with you tonight?"

"That would be nice, sweetheart," he couldn't see her face, but something in her voice told him she was smiling a little. "Gohan-chan used to sleep with me and your Daddy when he was your age . . . I've missed that."

"Okay," unconsciously, Kioku reached out and played with Mama's hair like he used to do when he was a baby, and found that it still caused his fears to diminish ever so slightly. "Gogo will be back tomorrow. And he'll be safe."

"Hey!" Trunks cried out indignantly as Kioku and ChiChi left the room. "What about me?"

Bulma chuckled softly, and she ruffled Trunks' hair affectionately. "What about you, kid? You aren't grumpy 'cause Kioku's gonna' sleep with his Mom for one night, are you?"

Trunks crossed his arms. "Yes," he pouted. "Kioku left. Big baby."

"Aw, come on," Bulma looked down at him, a questioning expression on her face. "Are you too big to sleep with your Mommy, Trunks?"

The almost four-year-old nearly choked at the thought of such a childish action and was about to say so when he caught a glimpse on his mother's face. Her mouth was curved up in a smile, but it was obviously forced, and the lines at the corners of her eyes tightened. It was the same look she got before Gohan had told her of Vegeta's death, when she knew what had happened without anyone having to say a word. Seeing her face like that made Trunks change his mind.

"Nah," he shook his head. "Not for one night, anyway."

Bulma's resulting smile was so brilliant that Trunks had to grin back, and he sprang up into her arms. "I'm not gonna' do this every night," he warned, but Bulma just laughed.

Back in Mama's room, Kioku cuddled up close to her, laying his head on her arm. Mama had stopped crying, but she kept her back turned to the side of the bed that would have been Papa's, had he still been alive. Kioku reached up and petted her cheek comfortingly, and was rewarded by a wan smile. "Gogo will be fine," he insisted.

Mama nodded, almost obediently, and she kissed him on the forehead. "Good night, Kioku-chan."

"'Night, Mama," Kioku nestled his head against her shoulder, letting out a high-pitched yawn. "Love you."

For a second Mama's eyes glistened and threatened to spill over, but she shook her head and gained control of her emotions just in time. "I love you, too, baby. Sweet dreams."

I hope so, Kioku thought with a small shudder.

******

Kioku was awakened from a dream about meditating by a waterfall, by a loud thump downstairs. "Gogo's back!" he exclaimed, jumping out of bed. He tried to run to the door, but the feet of his pajamas had stretched over his toes and he kept tripping on the fabric. "Waugh!" he yelped, slipping in the hall and nearly bouncing down the stairs.

Mama, who had hastily thrust her feet into slippers and was in the process of tying the sash on her housecoat, picked Kioku up by the elastic waistband of his pants and carried him down. "Gohan-chan?" she called. "Is that you?"

Kioku finally squirmed free of his mother's tight embrace and dropped to the floor, scrambling down the hall and all but skating on the bottoms of his feet until he reached the front foyer. Mama was close behind him, and she let out a shriek of fear and horror. "Gohan-chan!" she glanced back over her shoulder. "Bulma, Dad, get down here!"

Gohan was sprawled face-down on the ground, blood oozing from hundreds of gashes all over his body, soaking the remaining fabric of his tattered clothing. He was just barely conscious, the fingers of one hand twitching feebly, and he muttered something under his breath. Kioku's sharp hearing picked it up as, "The children," repeated over and over.

"Gogo, are you okay?" Kioku shook his shoulder gently, trying to wake him but not wanting to hurt him. "Are you hurt bad?"

"I couldn't save the children," Gohan rolled over onto his side and curled up in the fetal position. Tears slipped down his cheeks, creating a clean path through the blood and grime streaking his face. "I couldn't save them . . . the building collapsed, and they . . . they all . . ." after that, his words became unintelligible once more.

Kioku could only stare, helpless, waiting for Mama and Bulma-san and Grandpa to come. He watched the movement of Gohan's chest with every intake of his laboured breathing, saw the blood continue to seep through his clothes. One of Gohan's eyes was scabbed over so badly that it looked like a giant, bruised bump, and that side of his face was red and peeling, like he had been burned.

"Maybe I was a bit too hard this time," he muttered to himself, carefully nudging Gohan in the side. The boy had been rendered unconscious by a number of particularly vicious blows, and his tiny body lay broken on the rocks. He shook his head, ostensibly in disgust at the child's weakness, but the slightest trace of pity worked its way into his eyes.

"All right, kid, let's go home," he declared aloud, though he knew Gohan couldn't hear him. He knelt down and picked up the boy's limp form, cradling it almost gently in his muscled arms. Gohan whimpered slightly, but otherwise gave no sign of returning to consciousness.

He flew back to the cliffs where they spent their nights, and set Gohan down on the ground. After a moment's thought, he lifted a hand and created a blanket to cover him, and bandages for the worst of his wounds, then blasted a pile of wood to create a campfire. "I'll be back," he told Gohan's comatose form, then took off for the nearest forest.

For the next little while, he spent his time gathering certain leaves, roots, and herbs, and once he was finished he returned to the campsite. Gohan had not yet awakened, which was for the best, since the cure for energy burns and other sparring wounds often hurt more than the injuries themselves.

He ground the herbs to powder and mixed them with water, making a poultice which he placed on the wounds. Within minutes, the bleeding stopped and the ugly purple bruises faded, and the slight fever that had overtaken Gohan broke.. He smiled tightly, knowing the worst of the injuries would heal by morning.

"Kioku-chan, you've got to move, sweetheart," Bulma-san ordered, gently pushing Kioku out of the way. "Gohan's going to be all right, but we need to get him to a bed. Can you and Trunks go play for a while?"

Kioku didn't hear her. He kept his eyes screwed tightly shut, trying to remember exactly which herbs Papa Piccolo-san (assuming that was who he was) had used in the dream. After a few minutes, he was able to recall, not only the appearances, but the names of the plants as well.

"Kioku-chan?" Mama placed a hand to his forehead, worry lines creasing her face. "Are you feeling all right, honey?"

"Kiku gots daydreams again," Trunks explained with typical toddler rationality, "Don't worry. He's just thinking. We'll stay out of the way now. -'mon, Kiku."

Kioku still didn't respond, so Trunks latched hold of his wrist and pulled him outside. "Gosh, Kiku, what did you dream about this time? You did that funny staring eyeball thingy again."

"Sorry," Kioku apologized quickly, then he grabbed Trunks' arm and ran in the direction of the woods at the back of the Capsule Corp. compound.

"Where are we going?" Trunks demanded, easily keeping pace with his younger friend. "Are we gonna' climb trees again?"

"Nope. I dreamed that Papa Piccolo-san got a whole bunch of plants and crushed them up and made some stuff that made Gogo feel better. Maybe if I find those plants, I could make Gogo feel better now."

"You're nuts," the boy proclaimed, shaking his head. "Dreams are one thing. A bunch of plants helping Gohan-san . . . that's different. How can plants help?"

Kioku shot his friend a withering stare as they entered the wood, the sunlight falling in dappled patches on the ground. "Whaddaya' think medicine is made from, dummy? Plants an' stuff, I bet. 'Sides, if the other dreams were right, why not this one?"

Trunks threw up his arms in defeat, rolling his blue eyes. "You're still crazy, but the dream thing is crazy anyhow. What do the plants look like?"

Kioku grinned happily. "There was a green plant with . . . um . . . jagged edges, and the points of the leaves are red. It's called 'Devil's Foot'. You find that one. I'm gonna' look for one called 'Poison Root'."

"Nice names," Trunks muttered. "Sounds like they'd hurt Gohan-san, not help him . . ." still grumbling away to himself, Trunks got down on his hands and knees and began crawling in the underbrush, searching for the so-called Devil's Foot.

Half an hour later, the children emerged from the woods; scruffy and dirty, pajamas torn at the knees and elbows, but exultant. Kioku's excitement had been catching, and with each plant discovered, Trunks' yells of triumph grew louder, until they even overpowered Kioku's.

"That was cool," Trunks' face was smeared with dirt, but his eyes shone out from his face like pieces of blue crystal. "I never knew there were so many plants in one place!"

"Me, neither," Kioku looked at his bulging pockets, and at the hem of Trunks' shirt, all of which were stuffed to the bursting point with various herbs. "I wonder how Papa Piccolo-san learned about all this stuff?"

Trunks shrugged, then let out a quick 'eep!' and picked up one of the flowers he had dropped. "I dunno'. I guess warriors know more than just reg'lar fighting techniques, don't they!"

"My Papa does, anyway," Kioku beamed proudly, and for once Trunks merely grinned in agreement, not making any sarcastic comments.

"Heh," Trunks smiled. "Your Papa was pretty neat, Kiku. I wish we could've met him."

Kioku cocked his head to one side, thinking of the three memories he now had of his Papa. It was funny, but somehow he felt as if he did know Piccolo. He shared some of Piccolo's knowledge, though it was only a little about plants, and it made him feel close to him, in a private, intimate way. "Maybe we will. Maybe I'll remember so much from him that it will be like we knew him."

"You sound like your Papa," Trunks laughed, then shook his head in confusion. "I mean, Goku-san. It's too confusing! Normal people only have one father."

"I'm green, and I have pointy ears," Kioku bared his fangs to prove his point. "I'm not normal."

Their laughter carried all the way to the house.

Gohan was awake by then, but only marginally coherent. Mama had gained control of herself by the time they got back, and was helping to dress the wounds. The hysterics that overpowered Mama's reaction to Gohan's injuries never lasted more than ten minutes, and a startling competency quickly replaced the panic. "Kioku, what are you doing in here?" she chided him, wrapping a bandage on Gohan's chest. She was holding Gohan down with surprising strength, kneeling on his arms, and she spoke to Kioku without looking at him or pausing in her ministrations.

Kioku winced, noting how Gohan's blood had stained Mama's nightgown, the housecoat having been discarded some time ago, and he held out a handful of plants. "I know how to help Gogo," he reported, smiling importantly. "These will make the bleeding stop, and make the bruises go away, and everything!"

Mama and Bulma-san exchanged harried glances, but Kioku ignored them. "Really. I'm not lying."

"He's right," Trunks piped up, "Let us help. Even if you don't believe us, we won't hurt him."

Mama sighed in defeat, and she waved her hands, a gesture of agreement. "All right, all right. But can I ask how you know this?"

"Papa Piccolo-san told me," Kioku replied matter-of-factly, scrambling up onto the bed. Trunks had a little more trouble as he did not want to spill his cargo, and Bulma-san lifted him up. "I need hot water, and . . . and something to grind up the plants, and a bowl, and some cloths," Kioku instructed, planting his hands on his hips and looking around authoritatively. "Hurry, Mama!"

Mama looked at him funnily, but complied, bringing the requested items quickly. Kioku spread the various herbs, leaves, roots, and the occasional flower on the blanket, and he picked out a few. He ground them to powder with the mortar and pestle Mama used to crush herbs for baking, and mixed the powder with the water. Carefully, Kioku picked up the resulting paste and spread it over the burn on the left side of Gohan's face. Gohan let out an agonized yell, but Kioku continued to pat his face gently.

As everyone watched, the ugly redness faded from his face, and the blistering skin began to smooth over. Gohan's cries died down to quiet whimpers. "I don't believe it!" Mama whispered.

"Toldja'," Trunks grinned triumphantly. "Kiku knows what he's doing."

Kioku smiled proudly, then wiped Gohan's face clean with a cloth soaked in water. "Trunks-kun, gimme' the . . . uh . . . the Sunroot and the Monkeyflower," when the plants were handed to him, Kioku crushed them to an extremely fine powder, so that they dissolved when they were mixed with water.

"This is gonna' taste yucky, Gogo," Kioku warned, but all Gohan did was groan. Gently cupping Gohan's chin in his tiny hand, Kioku tilted his brother's head backward and dribbled the liquid into his open mouth. Gohan gagged and tried to spit it out, but Kioku covered his mouth and plugged his nose, forcing him to swallow.

"Blech!" Gohan squeezed his eyes shut, showing the first indication of fully returning to consciousness. "Wha- wha' wassat?"

"Stuff," Kioku explained evasively. "You gotta' drink more. You won't hurt so bad if you drink it."

"'S'disgusting," Gohan muttered, but he didn't turn his head away. "Pic'lo-san . . . usta gimme' this," he murmured, "Did you . . . rem'ber that . . . too?"

Kioku nodded, slowly feeding Gohan the rest of the mixture. "Yeah. Is it working?"

Gohan smiled weakly, the faintest of expressions, but at least it was something. "You're a lot . . . like your . . . Dad," he patted Kioku's head, then sank back into the pillows. "Get the . . . Arrow-weed."

"I was just gonna'," Kioku affirmed, finding the spiky, purple-leaved plant. "Go back to sleep, Gogo."

******

Gohan's wounds were healed by nightfall, and he was able to tell of what had happened to him during the battle. Kioku covered his ears, not wanting to hear. Gohan's descriptive talents were extraordinary, giving his listeners the perfect mental image of what had happened.

After supper, Gohan retired to his room, the good humour that had overtaken him during his bout of semi-consciousness all but nonexistent. Kioku followed timidly, a slightly-bolder Trunks in his wake. "Gogo?" Kioku knocked on the door.

"I'm tired, kids. Can you leave me alone?" Gohan's voice, weary and strained, came through the door.

"We wanna' talk to you," Kioku protested, and when Gohan didn't reply, he mustered his resolve and pushed open the door.

Gohan was lying on his bed, facing the wall, holding something in his hand. Kioku glanced at the bedside table and noted that the photograph of Gohan, Mama, and Papa was missing from its usual place. He winced. "Gogo, we want you to train us," he spoke up.

"No," Gohan replied sharply. "You're not strong enough. I don't want you getting hurt."

"Well, 'course we aren't!" Trunks interjected, "You haven't trained us yet!"

Kioku shushed him with a hand gesture, and he tugged on the corner of Gohan's blanket. "But Gogo, you weren't strong when you were little. Papa Piccolo-san had to teach you how to fight. That's what Papa said, anyway."

Gohan rolled over to face them in a violent motion, a ferocious glare on his face. "No!" he shouted. "I don't want to train you! Don't you see? I-it's because I stayed behind to train you guys that I wasn't there when Dad, Kuririn, and everyone else were killed. While they were out there dying I was fooling around in the backyard pretending to teach you two martial arts!"

"But Gogo," Kioku piped up, knowing what he was about to say could very well end up in an explosive outburst. "If you went with Papa and everyone, you - you would be dead, too. You weren't strong enough."

"I wish I was!" Gohan yelled, and both boys stumbled backwards in fear, tripping over themselves and falling with a thud to the floor. "I'd rather be in heaven with Dad and Piccolo-san and everybody than stuck here! It's a nightmare now! We all have to run and hide from those monsters, and I'm not strong enough to fight them - nobody is! I have to live here and watch Mom cry when she thinks nobody's looking, and look at you two and see your fathers every time, and .. . and . . . and know that I could be with Dad and Piccolo! I wish I had died!"

Curling up into a ball, Gohan flung the covers over his head. "Go away," he muttered, "I'm not going to train you. You might get strong, but not strong enough. And I can't stop seeing your dads when I look at you. It's too hard!" he cut himself off with a choked-off sob. "Leave me alone."

Silently, the children edged out of the room, shutting the door softly. Kioku's lip quivered, and he sank to the floor, face buried in his hands. "I always hurt Gogo," he sniffled, "I try to be a good little brother, but I just hurt him all the time."

Trunks sat beside him slowly, and he cautiously rested a hand on Kioku's back. "You don't hurt him," he argued. "Well, I mean, he does get sad sometimes, but it's not your fault."

"No?" Kioku countered bitterly. "I look like Papa Piccolo-san, and that makes him sad. He didn't get to go fight with Papa and Vegeta-san because I asked him to stay. If he only fights the jinzouningen so he can die and be with my Papas, then me helping him with the plants only made it worse. Nothing I do is right!"

"It's not your fault," Trunks insisted quietly, "Gohan-san loves you. He's just sad, that's all."

With a sob, Kioku leaned against Trunks, and his friend hugged him. "It's okay, Kiku," Trunks rubbed Kioku's back. "It's okay."

Mama and Bulma-san came to check on Gohan then, but stopped short when they saw their sons. "Kioku-chan, what's the matter? Is something wrong with Gohan?"

"No," Trunks replied, thankfully giving Kioku time to compose himself. "Kiku is sad 'cause he wants to help Gohan-san, but he doesn't think he can."

Mama bent down and picked Kioku up, and he burrowed his face in the juncture between her neck and shoulder. "I shouldn't have been born, Mama," Kioku hiccupped, "All I do is hurt people. I remind Gogo of Papa Piccolo-san, and . . . and a lot of stuff."

"No, that isn't true," Mama kissed the top of his head. "I love you. I'm glad you were born, because you remind us all that there is still life and innocence in a world of death and pain."

"Do I remind you of Papa?" Kioku demanded suddenly, and his body felt intensely heavy as the thought struck him. "I know I don't look like him, but do I remind you of him?"

Mama paused, and in her silence she said more than any words could. "Well, yes. You are a lot like him. You both seem so innocent and carefree, but you get paralysed with guilt when you think you've hurt people. I know he wasn't your blood father, but you're like him in a lot of ways."

"Does it make you sad?"

"Sometimes," Mama admitted, "But I don't care. I love you, and I wouldn't trade you for anything."

"What about me?" Trunks piped up from the ground. "Mom, do I make you sad because of Papa? Answer honest."

Bulma-san sighed gustily. "What's with all the questions, you two? Yes, Trunks, you're almost exactly like your father. You look just like him, and you have most of his attitude. Sometimes it can make me feel a little sad. But ChiChi's right; it doesn't make me love you any less. If anything, I love you more because it's like I have a piece of your father to stay with me."

Neither Kioku nor Trunks said anything, and soon they were taken to bed.

"I hurt everybody," Kioku whispered, once his mother had left and the lights were turned out. "Mama says she loves me, but if she's sad then it's not fair to her."

"I know," Trunks agreed, and he rolled over to face Kioku. "I know we're just kids, but do you ever think that a lot of stuff is our fault? Like, if we hadn't been born, our Papas would have been training instead of taking care of us, and then they could have killed the jinzouningen?"

"Yeah. It feels like I should do something, something important, like my Papas did, but I can't do anything. I'm a baby."

"You're not a baby!" Trunks expostulated. "We're little, but we're not babies. Someday we'll do something big and important. I know we will."

"And before we do, all I'm good for is making everybody sad," Kioku intoned morosely. "Sometimes I think I should just leave. Leave and come back after I killed the jinzouningen. Then I wouldn't make Mama or Gogo sad, and when I got back, Gogo would like me better, maybe."

Trunks sat up, and there was a gleam in his eye that Kioku had warily come to recognize as the one that meant his friend had thought up a crazy idea. "Why don't we? Why don't we leave? Our Papas trained by themselves most of the time - why don't we go away and train ourselves? We could get really strong, and defeat the jinzouningen, and we wouldn't put our Mamas in danger by living with them. And then, when the jinzouningen are dead, we could come back and we'd be heroes!"

Kioku said nothing, thinking the idea over in his mind. He knew that leaving would make his Mama cry, but she would probably understand why he was gone. She would have Gogo to protect her, and she wouldn't have to look at Kioku and think of Papa all the time. The more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed to him.

"What if we did?" Kioku said slowly, "How would we survive? We wouldn't have Mama feeding us and stuff."

"Who cares?" Trunks' eyes were sparkling now, and he flicked his fingers in a "so what?" gesture. "Papa told me that Saiyajin babies used to get dumped off on planets by themselves when they were only a week old, and they were okay. And didn't you say that Piccolo-san left Gohan-san in the desert for six months, and he did fine? We're just as smart as Gohan-san. We could do it."

"Okay," Kioku nodded, knowing that if he thought about it too long, he would never reach a decision. "Let's go."

"Yeah!" Trunks exclaimed, though he carefully kept his voice down. "We're gonna' be real fighters! It shouldn't take very long for us to get strong enough to fight the jinzouningen, right? A couple weeks, or a month or so?"

Kioku blinked rapidly, assessing the validity of the estimation. The result was a dubious shake of the head. "I don't think so, Trunks-kun. I mean, it took everybody else years an' years to get strong. Why would we get strong so fast?"

Trunks appeared baffled by this, but he didn't let it stop him, or even dim his enthusiasm. "Okay, so maybe it'll take a bit longer . . . but kids learn faster than grownups. Don't worry about it! What should we pack?"

"Um," Kioku bit his lip thoughtfully, glancing around. "Mama always says to have clean socks and underwear. What about that?"

Trunks wrinkled his nose. "Ew. How boring. But yeah, you're right," he found a capsule suitcase in the closet and began tossing the aforementioned items into it. Kioku took up his example and packed his own suitcase. "Now what?" Trunks looked up.

"Food for you, silly," Kioku rolled his large eyes. "I don't need any, but you might."

"Nah," his friend disagreed. "I can kill animals and stuff. But I might need candy!" Trunks scooted under the bed and emerged with an armful of chocolate and other sweets.

In this manner, the boys packed their suitcases. The trivial action helped remove the severity of their decision from their minds as they chattered and bantered, packing comic books they couldn't yet read and other items for the times when they took breaks from training. All the while, Kioku tried to convince himself that the ache in his heart was from lack of sleep, not glimpses of what he would feel without his mother.

It's for the best, Mama, Kioku thought, wiping his eyes with the back of one hand subtly, so Trunks wouldn't notice. I don't wanna' hurt you anymore. When I'm strong, I-I'll kill the jinzouningen and come back to you.

A hand fell to rest on his shoulder, and Kioku's head snapped up. He chewed on his lip guiltily as he saw Trunks frowning at him. "Are you okay?" his friend asked. "Do you wanna' stay?"

Yes, yes, yes! Kioku's mind screamed at him, but he shook his head dumbly, brushing the remainder of the tears from his cheeks. "No. I don't want Mama and Gogo to hurt anymore."

"Okay," Trunks disappeared into his gigantic closet, then emerged with a large, blue box. "Mama made these for me a long time ago, so I could train with Papa. They're stretchy, and really strong. I think we should wear 'em."

Kioku watched curiously as Trunks opened the box and withdrew some funny-looking outfits; black bodysuits made of a curious, rubbery material, white armour and gloves, and white, gold-tipped boots. "Whoa, cool!" he proclaimed.

Trunks shot him a toothy grin as he tossed Kioku a set of clothing. "It's Saiyajin armour . . . royal Saiyajin armour. Put it on!"

Kioku shimmied out of his pj's and pulled on the bodysuit, marvelling as the material expanded to conform perfectly to his body. He had a little trouble putting on the chest plate, but Trunks had dressed much quicker and helped him buckle the straps. It took some hopping around on one foot at a time to get the boots on, and Kioku refused to wear the gloves because they pressed uncomfortably against his taloned fingers, but eventually he was ready.

"You make a good Saiyajin," Trunks complimented him. "Um . . . green and big-eared, but hey, who cares? I've got purple hair and blue eyes."

"Let's leave now, Trunks-kun," Kioku spoke up suddenly, encapsulating his suitcase. "I-I don't wanna' stay anymore or I won't go. I know it."

"Sure," Trunks punched Kioku's arm, and they sneaked out the window and jumped down, not caring that they were on the third floor. What little training they had received in their early years had at least taught them how to jump without hurting themselves.

"You think we should leave a note?" Kioku wondered aloud as they trekked across the compound.

Trunks looked at him as though someone had tattooed 'STUPID' on Kioku's forehead. "Uh, Kiku? I can't write. Can you?"

"No," the tiny Namekusejin hung his head, feeling like an idiot. "But how will we tell them where we went? I don't want them to think we died or something."

"Well, maybe we could leave a message on the answering machine," Trunks chewed thoughtfully on his thumb. "I think some of the phones still work . . . there's gotta' be at least one good payphone somewhere."

Kioku beamed appreciatively at him, and some of the sorrow of leaving his family was eased. "So after we find a phone, we can start training, right?"

"Yep!"

"How do we train? I've never done it without Gogo or Papa or Vegeta-san telling me what to do."

Trunks stopped walking for a few seconds, scratching the back of his head, then he held up one hand, grinning, flashing the "V for victory" sign with his fingers. "We'll figure it out! We're smart."

Kioku had to laugh at his best friend's optimism. "Okay, okay. I guess you're right."

"'Course I am," Trunks grinned, and he slung an arm over Kioku's shoulders as they resumed their walk. "I'm always right."

Arm in arm, the two friends walked on into the darkening night, under the ever-watchful gaze of the glittering stars.

******

O, my! The little intrepids have decided it would be better to train away from home, eh? How will poor Kioku adjust to living without his mother? And how will their mothers react? But most importantly, will they survive? It's a dangerous world out there . . .

Ah. My infamous second disclaimers... ^^ My sister suggested I add this one (again ... hmm. Pattern?). THIS STORY WILL NOT CONTAIN SHOUNEN-AI. Ahem. Kioku and Trunks are friends -- close friends, I'll admit, but I don't write romance between three-year-olds, thanks. And no, there will be no romance later, either. Just in case anyone was wondering if there was "something" between the kids (*cough* sicko! *cough*).