Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Deeper Than Colour -- The Kioku Story ❯ I Wanna Go Home -- The Obstacle ( Chapter 5 )

Disclaimer: I don't own DB/Z/GT. I'm on a time limit right now - make up your own witty line. Merry Christmas!

A/N: I'm SO sorry this was late - extraneous circumstances had a hand in it . . . I hate it when real life gets in the way of my writing. Stupid life. Anyhow…. This chapter is going to have an R rating near the end of it - just in case you've missed the wonderful, characteristic of me violence, here's some for you!

So. I made this chapter extra long for you guys, to make up for it, okay? Love ya'!

Deeper Than Colour - The Kioku Story

Chapter Five: I Wanna' Go Home - The Obstacle

"You know what?" Briefs Trunks remarked idly, as though the matter was of no great importance, though Son Kioku could hear in his voice that it was no minor matter. He and Kioku were lying on their backs on the desert floor, looking up at the twinkling stars.

"Nope," Kioku replied. "You gonna' tell me?"

Trunks sighed, wistfully and with a trace of regret. "I don't know what Dad looks like anymore. I don't remember. Do you?"

Kioku thought for a minute, straining his memory for any trace of the proud Saiyajin. As much as he struggled, however, he drew a blank. "No, Trunks-kun, I don't. I'm sorry."

His friend shook his head, and the starlight glittering on his face made his features seem much more chiselled. "'S'okay. I think he had black hair, but . . . that's all I know. And I know he was strong. And . . . and I think he was kind of angry all the time."

"Yeah. I think I remember him yelling," Kioku glanced at Trunks, and saw that the demi-Saiyajin's mouth tightened. "That's not much to remember, is it? It's been a long time, though."

"Seven years since Dad died," Trunks agreed, nodding slowly. Kioku felt a pang of pain inside him, though he wasn't quite sure why. "And five years since I've seen Mom. I don't really remember what she looks like, either," the pitch of his voice raised, making him sound a little panicked. "She had . . . she had blue hair, or green . . . something like that. And blue eyes. Darker than mine. And she was always sad. I don't remember her smiling much," he pressed a hand to his forehead, digging his fingers into his scalp.

"Every time I try to think of Mom, I can't," Trunks continued, helplessly, "It's like . . . I can see her hair, and her clothes, but . . . her face . . . it's . . . it's just a blank. I don't remember what she looks like at all," he pounded a fist into the ground, and his hand split the rock in pieces. "I don't want to forget Mom! I want to remember her!"

"I know," Kioku's voice softened as he relived the pain of his own fading memory. "When I look at a picture of Mom, then I know what she looks like, but if I try to see her myself, I can't."

"You have a picture of her?" Trunks sat up abruptly, eyebrows raised. "Aw, why didn't I think of that? Can I see?"

Kioku hesitated, not wanting to admit that he had been sentimental enough to bring a photograph of his family five years ago. It was hard to tell when Trunks would decide to make fun of him or not. He didn't mind being made fun of in most cases, but not in instances of such a personal nature; his family was a sensitive spot. Kioku had taken to differentiating between his two fathers; instead of calling them both "Papa" as he had done in the past, he had begun referring to Piccolo, his blood parent, as "Father," and Goku, the only father he knew, as "Dad." He didn't prefer one over the other, but felt his relationship with Piccolo, if he had ever known him, would have been a more formal one.

"You're not gonna' laugh?" Kioku asked warily.

Trunks shook his head vehemently, and he stuck out his hand for Kioku to shake. "N'uh-uh. I miss my Mom, too, ya' know. Can I just see the picture? Maybe it'll help me remember."

Warily, Kioku grasped Trunks' hand, and Trunks' fingers closed over his own in a promise to stand by his word. "Okay," Kioku dug in a pocket of his breastplate and withdrew a few worn photographs. The crease lines were cracked and grey from the photos being folded and refolded so many times, but Kioku didn't care. "Here," he handed them to Trunks, scooting close to him so he could look over his shoulder.

The first photo was a candid, taken by Gohan before Kioku had been born. He had no idea what the situation had been but Dad was kissing Mom, neither of them aware of the presence of the camera. The funny part was the background, where Father was nearly killing himself with laughter. For once, Trunks made no snide remark about being "kissy-kissy" - instead, he just smiled and went on to the next picture.

Kioku didn't know who had snapped that photograph, for Dad, Mom, Gohan, and Father were all in it. Dad had one arm around Mom and one hand on Gohan's shoulder, all three smiling. Father was trying to get away, his fangs bared, but Gohan was clinging tightly to his arm, not allowing him to escape. Gohan was laughing a little, eyes sparkling, looking happier than Kioku ever remembered him to be in his lifetime. Trunks got a good chuckle out of that one, as well.

The next photograph had been taken by one of Kioku's parents, probably secretly, since the subject of the photo was Father and Gohan. Father was sitting on Gohan's bed, holding Gohan on his lap, and Gohan was hugging him. Kioku guessed that Gohan had had a nightmare or something, for a similar event had been recorded in Gohan's journal, the one that Kioku now kept in a capsule in his pocket.

The last picture showed Mom sitting in a rocking chair, holding a tiny, green infant wrapped up in a blanket. Dad stood behind the chair, his hands on Mom's shoulders, and both of them were looking at the baby and smiling. Kioku liked that photo, because it was the only one he had with himself and his father in the same picture.

"Here," Trunks handed the photographs back to him, an uncharacteristically solemn expression darkening his face. "I wish I had pictures of my Mom . . . it might be easier."

Kioku wasn't really listening; he was staring at the group photograph again, feeling like a knife was stabbing him repeatedly in the heart as he gazed at his mother. Her face was more faded than the rest of the picture, since Kioku always ran his fingers over it whenever he looked at it. "I remember little stuff about Mom," he spoke up quietly, "Like her smile, and how it always made me feel better. And how her voice was always so quiet and sad. And . . . and how - how she loved Dad so much," he sniffed, and swiped the back of his hand across his eyes. "But I don't know what she looks like except when I see the pictures."

"Yeah."

Kioku tucked the photographs back inside his armour, and he leaned back, resting his head on his one arm. "Trunks-kun?"

"Yeah?"

"Do . . . do you remember how Dad died?" Kioku shuddered, and he sat up abruptly, wrapping his arm around himself. It didn't do anything against the sudden chill that ran through him, but it helped him feel more safe. "I just tried to remember, and I couldn't. I know the jinzouningen killed my Dad, and your Dad, and their friends, but . . . that's it."

Trunks scrunched up his face and balled his hands into fists, concentrating with the full force of his mind. Kioku watched intently as a light blue aura surrounded his friend, pulsating in the blackness of night. After a few minutes, Trunks opened his eyes and shook his head, eyes glimmering. "No. I don't. I never thought about that before, Kiku! I - I just always thought I'd remember, but I don't."

Kioku chewed on his lower lip, inwardly annoyed that he still indulged in such a childish habit, but unable to stop himself. It gave him a funny sense of security to do so. "I don't even know what Dad's friends were named anymore, or what they looked like."

"They were humans," Trunks declared decisively. "I know that much. And they . . . they died pretty messy, I think. I think Dad died kinda' gross, too, but I'm not sure. Hey," he looked up suddenly, curiously, and cocked his head to one side. "How come you can 'member all that stuff from Piccolo-san and his dad, but not your life?"

"I dunno'," Kioku shrugged elaborately. "Never thought about it. You want me to try?"

"It can't hurt," Trunks pointed out.

Kioku forced himself to quit biting his lip, and he pressed his fingers to his temples. "Okay, here goes," he squeezed his eyes shut tightly and began focussing his mind energy, humming loudly. He didn't know why he hummed when he concentrated, but Daddy Piccolo used to do it and that was enough for Kioku.

"Cool," he heard Trunks whisper, and Kioku bit back a smile. He kept concentrating, his humming growing louder, until it overpowered all the sounds around him. Trunks had once commented on how funny it was that such a little kid could make that loud a noise, but Kioku had just rolled his eyes and ignored him.

"Hey, wait!" Kioku's eyes snapped open, and he looked at Trunks sheepishly. "What am I s'posed to be remembering again? I was concentrating real hard, but I forgot what I was supposed to concentrate about."

Trunks slapped his forehead with his palm, the sound echoing loudly through the desert terrain, and he nearly fell over. "Kiku, you've been out in the sun too long. See if you can remember how our Dads died."

"I knew that."

"Yup, I know."

Kioku resumed his humming and concentrating, trying to reach the shadowy recesses in his mind where the elusive memories lay dormant. He'd never tried anything like this before, really, so it was rather strange for him . . . his mind felt almost like a forest through which he was walking, with certain memories lurking behind "trees," just out of sight. Unconsciously, he started chewing his lip again.

- Broken concrete, chunks of asphalt all over the street -

Kioku's head snapped up in surprise at the suddenness of the memory, but he chased it in his mind, not allowing it to escape.

- Puddles on the road, even though it hadn't rained in more than a week -

He frowned. There was something about the puddles . . . he remembered something strange, something . . .

- The puddles were red . . . are puddles supposed to be red like that? -

Kioku shuddered. Now he remembered . . .

- Wondering whose hand that was, lying there on the street, and why there wasn't a body to go with it -

Kioku whimpered, but kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He had a feeling the memories, however they turned out, were not going to be very pleasant . . .

- Kuririn-san's body, lying in a pile of rubble, sides bleeding and head crushed -

- Yamucha-san, with no legs and a smashed-up chest -

- Tenshinhan-san, a giant hole in his throat, one leg missing -

- Half-buried in stones, the broken body of Vegeta-san; no arms, no legs, not even a head . . . just flesh and muscle, with bits of bone and hair here and there . . . not even recognizable as someone who had once been a person -

- Gohan, screaming, crying, fists thrown in the air, head back . . . his hair turning yellow, eyes going green -

- Trunks-kun, coming to fall beside his Dad's body, sobbing, touching the body like he couldn't believe it had happened -

Kioku clutched his forehead, wanting to stop - he remembered the pain now, what he had felt . . . he didn't want to relive it all over again. It was too late now, though - the floodgates had opened and there was no way to stop it. "No . . ."

- And then, in the middle of all the bodies, was Dad . . . his eyes wide open and gross -

- The enormous hole in his chest, empty and bloody -

- Himself falling, slipping on something wet and slimy -

- Staring in horror at his father's heart, lying on the cement -

- Crying, curling up next to Dad, singing softly . . . -

"Hey, uh . . . Kiku? I don't wanna' know anymore, not if it hurts that much," Trunks' voice brought Kioku to reality.

With a gasp that sounded suspiciously like a sob, Kioku snapped his eyes open. Trunks was chewing nervously on his fingernails (his equivalent habit to Kioku's lip-biting), his eyes flicking everywhere at once as he fought not to look at his best friend. AWas it really that bad?" the demi-Saiyajin asked softly, after a few silent moments.

"Um, it was . . . it was pretty awful," Kioku released his breath in a long, shuddering sigh, not at all surprised to feel wetness on his cheeks. He lifted his hand, noticing it was shaking, and he clutched his knee tightly in an effort to stop the trembling. "Kuririn-san's head was squished, Yamucha-san -"

"Don't!" Trunks cried sharply, turning away from him, "Don't tell me that. Just . . . what happened to my Dad?"

Kioku's lip began quivering, and inwardly he cursed himself for his weakness - even if he was only eight years old, he was supposed to be a warrior, not a snivelling infant. "He - he got blasted. When we got there, I could b-barely tell it was him," he squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the expression of anguish he knew would be contorting Trunks' features. "It's kinda' fuzzy 'cause I was only little, so I might've -"

"Don't try to make me feel better," Trunks' voice, though low and hoarse, was gruff and perfectly in control. Kioku looked at him, and he had to force himself not to jump backward; Trunks' face was cold and expressionless, his mouth set in a thin line, eyes dead. Kioku got a funny feeling in his stomach - empty, like there was a hole inside him. Nine-year-old boys shouldn't have that look on their faces.

"Trunks-kun?" Kioku ventured timidly, not wanting his friend to snap at him. He knew Trunks never meant to be mean, but sometimes the boy could get quite harsh when he was upset. Kioku figured it was a trait he'd inherited from one - or both - of his parents. "How long do you think it will take for us to be strong enough to kill the jinzouningen?"

Trunks snorted, flopping back to the ground and crossing his arms over his chest. "Years, probably," he thumbed his nose at no one in particular, and Kioku wondered if he was doing it at himself. "We're not gettin' anywhere with this! We're not old enough - even with Piccolo-san's training methods and stuff, it'll take a long time," propping himself up on one elbow, Trunks glanced at him. "Why?"

Kioku scratched his head between his antennae, trying to find the right words that would express what he wanted to say without sounding too childish. Being Namekusejin, Kioku appeared to be a few years older than Trunks, but his mind was still one of an eight-year-old - not including, of course, memories from four other Namekusejins, as well. Even if he looked more than ten years old, Kioku didn't feel like it.

"I don't want you to laugh at me, but . . . I won't blame you if you do . . . I guess I am a little silly . . ." Kioku blew out his breath in an explosive sigh of frustration, annoyed at himself for his inability to speak coherently. "Trunks-kun, I - I wanna' go home."

Trunks' eyes widened, glistening a bright silver in the light of the stars. He opened his mouth to speak, but Kioku shook his head. "Don't make fun of me. I miss Mom, and Gohan, and Gram'pa, and Bulma-san . . . we're not gonna' get strong enough training ourselves. We need Gohan to help us. We're not getting anywhere - you said so yourself, Trunks-kun. We're getting distracted 'cause we miss our family."

He tugged abstractedly on one earlobe, not looking at Trunks. He didn't know what his friend was thinking, and wasn't exactly sure if he wanted to. Not if he was going to be made fun of, anyway. After a few tense seconds of silence, measured by the beating of Kioku's heart, Trunks sighed quietly.

"Y'know what? You're right. I'm tired, Kiku . . . tired of training an' training an' never getting anywhere. I can't even go Super Saiyajin yet!" he ran his hands through his hair, a bitter expression on his face that Kioku hazily recalled as one he had seen on Gohan's. "Let's just go back."

Relief and joy cut through the homesickness that had been strangling Kioku for the past six months or so, and he grinned crazily. "Thanks, Trunks-kun! Gohan will be a lot stronger now, and it won't bug him to train us anymore!"

Trunks smiled, though it seemed somewhat forced, and he pulled a capsule out of his chest plate. "We'll go back home tomorrow, okay?"

Kioku hugged himself gleefully, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. He was so excited, he thought he was going to burst open like a party balloon filled with too much helium. "Okay. 'Night, Trunks!"

"Yeah. 'Night," Trunks pressed a button on the capsule, revealing two blankets and pillows, which Kioku had created a few years back. He handed Kioku his, and the two boys settled down for their last sleep in the desert.

Long after Trunks dozed off, Kioku lay awake staring at the stars, a wide grin creeping across his face until he figured he must look like a maniac. "I'm going home," he whispered in a singsong, "I'm going home! I'll see you soon, Mom!"

******

"I bet Bulma-san isn't even going to recognize you with that hair, eh, Trunks-kun?" Kioku kidded him, elbowing him in the side repeatedly. Kioku's spirits had lightened considerably since the decision to return home, but the now-fresh memory of the massacre hung in his mind like a cloud of despair. Teasing Trunks was the best way to keep his mind off it.

"What's wrong with it?" Trunks demanded, lifting a hand to his head self-consciously. His lavender hair had grown in the five years of training, and now hung down his back. It was clumsily braided by Kioku (who hadn't much of a clue when it came to that sort of thing, but it was better at it than Trunks), and tied with a length of spandex material torn from one of their sleeves.

Kioku laughed and tweaked the end of Trunks' braid playfully, showing his fangs in a grin as his friend glared at him. "You look like a . . . a . . . a what is it? If you're not a boy, you're a . . ."

"A girl?!" Trunks bristled, crossing his arms defensively and looking more than a little embarrassed. "I do not. And whadda' you know about 'em anyhow? You don't even know what they are, mister no-gender-Namekusejin. Bah!"

"Your hair looks like Mom's hair," Kioku replied matter-of-factly, forcibly restraining a laugh. "And Mom's a girl. She braids her hair like that when she goes to bed," unable to resist, he batted his eyelashes like he vaguely remembered Bulma-san doing once. "You look very pretty!"

Trunks swallowed, and for a second it looked as though he was about to be ill. His face paled, and he glanced at his hair venomously. "Cut it off," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"You heard me. You can cut down trees and rocks with your hand - you can cut my braid off," Trunks turned his back to Kioku, flipping his hair over his shoulder. "I'm not going home looking like a girl. It's bad enough that my hair is purple. And it was your idea to braid my hair anyway!"

"Only 'cause you didn't want it getting in the way," Kioku sighed, wondering what the big deal was; he actually didn't see the difference between boys and girls, but apparently it was insulting to be called of the opposite gender. Raising his hand, Kioku chopped through the braid at the base of Trunks' neck, then held the severed tassel like a war trophy. "All done," he declared.

"Good," Trunks shook his head vigorously like a wet dog, his hair now falling just above his shoulders, and he yanked the strip of spandex from the end of his braid, tying his hair back in a careless ponytail. Several loose strands fell around his face, but he looked much better than before. "There."

"Let's keep going," Kioku decided, and, not knowing what else to do with it, encapsulated Trunks' hair when the demi-Saiyajin wasn't looking, then quietly slipped it in Trunks' pocket. Maybe Bulma-san would like to keep it; Kioku had the odd idea that mothers liked to do silly things like that.

"You know what would be fun?" Trunks spoke up after another hour of walking, and Kioku was immediately put on guard. Trunks only used that tone of voice when he was planning something, and while Kioku enjoyed participating in Trunks' schemes, he didn't want to begin one when they were only a week's walk from home.

"What?" Kioku took the bait warily.

"We should fly home. That would be so much faster!" Trunks' eyes glittered, and he waved his arms frantically, gesticulating wildly as he spoke. "If we flew back, Gohan-san would be so impressed with us, he'd forget all about us running away! He'd be so happy we taught ourselves to fly that he'd wanna' train us!"

"I just wanna' go home," Kioku disagreed, feeling weariness creep over him, invading his muscles and dampening any enthusiasm he might have for following Trunks on one of his odd ideas. "It took a long time for Gohan to learn how to fly. And . . . besides . . . Father taught him by throwing him off a cliff."

"There's lotsa' cliffs around here."

"Trunks-kun! You gotta' be kidding!"

No reply.

"R-right?"

******

The wind whistled ominously, whipping dust and leaves about in a crazy dance around the two children. It was still burning hot in the desert, the sun beating down like a broken heater gone haywire, but Kioku shivered nonetheless. He nudged a rock over the edge of the cliff with his toe, and shuddered as he watched it fall for hundreds of feet into the canyon below.

"Well, this might be fun," Kioku admitted, attempting to swallow around the rock firmly lodged in his throat. He sneaked a glance at Trunks, who was having difficulty keeping the nervousness from flitting about his own features. "If we don't smash into a bzillion pieces when we hit the ground."

"Quit it," Trunks snapped shakily, "So . . . who wants to go first?"

Kioku opened and shut his mouth a few times, trying to drum up the courage to volunteer, but at the same time afraid to say no. He didn't want to voluntarily leap off a cliff to the rocks below, but was afraid to admit to cowardice. Just as he prepared to suggest that Trunks make the first attempt at flight, a mental image of Father came to Kioku's mind; of the tall, proud Namekusejin hiding behind Gohan, shaking his head vehemently and refusing to try something new. It was such a ludicrous thought that Kioku burst out laughing, his body trembling as he struggled to control his convulsions.

Trunks evidently thought he was laughing at him, for the boy's eyes narrowed and his eyebrows furrowed in a defensive scowl. "What's so funny?"

"Not you," Kioku pursed his lips to stop laughing, but a few giggles escaped anyhow. "I was just thinking how scared I am, and I tried to picture Father being as wimpy as I'm being, and it was just a funny picture, that's all. Father wasn't afraid of anything, except Gohan dying, so I was tryin' to see what it would be like if he was frightened of jumping off a cliff . . ." he broke off, chuckling.

Fortunately, Trunks found the humour in the situation, and the lavender-haired boy let out a dry laugh of his own. "Yeah, I don't think Piccolo-san would be scared of this, even if he couldn't fly!" he paused, then eyed Kioku hopefully. "Does that mean you'll go first?"

No kid of mine would chicken out because of something stupid like learning to fly!

The inner voice startled Kioku, and he jumped a little. He'd been doing that a lot over the past year or so; hearing voices as though Father was actually speaking to him. All along he knew it was merely a product of his mind, caused by having so many memories of his father that he had begun to think like Piccolo had, but it was still slightly disconcerting when it happened. "Yeah," Kioku clenched his fists, hoping that the discomfort brought by his nails digging into his flesh would distract him from his fear. It felt like his internal organs had disappeared.

Trunks gave him a relieved thumb's-up, and he scratched his head. "Okay, you jump, and I'll count to ten and jump after you. 'Kay? That way you won't be too far ahead of me."

"Okay," Kioku was proud of himself, for his voice came out sounding clear and controlled - if not exactly brave, at least it wasn't shaky. "Um, I'll jump first . . . count to five for me."

"Five . . ."

I don't wanna' do this . . .

"Four . . ."

I'm scared . . .

"Three . . ."

I'm gonna' die, and then I won't see Mom for a long time!

"Two . . ."

No, no, no, no, no!

"One!"

Don't wanna' don't wanna' don'twanna'dontwannadontwanna -

Before he could even finish his mental scream, Kioku found himself falling; somewhere, while his brain was paralyzed, his body had taken over. Kioku could feel the wind running over his body like fire, and he only had time to half-complete another thought:

Maybe this was a bad -

WHAM!!

Pain slammed into him as Kioku's body smashed into the ground, and though it felt like all his bones were broken, he knew, somehow, that he was fine. "Maybe Trunks-kun did better," he muttered . . .

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

SLAM!!

Or not . . .

Kioku found himself laughing as he slowly picked himself up, dusting his clothing off. It was surprising to discover that he didn't even have a scratch on him; and, after shooting a concerned glance Trunks' way, he discovered the grumbling demi-Saiyajin was unscathed, as well.

"I guess this'll take more time than I thought," Trunks conceded grudgingly, patting his armour and sending clouds of dust flying. "We're not hurt, though. Our energy shields must be getting pretty good."

"Guess so. Does that mean we're going home now?"

Trunks lifted an eyebrow incredulously, his face a perfect picture of polite disdain. "Are you kidding? A few more falls and we'll be flying in no time!"

Kioku threw up his arm in exasperation, but knew there was no arguing with Trunks when he wanted something as bad as this. "Okay, fine. But if we miss supper 'cause it took us hours an' hours to learn to fly, then don't complain to me if you're hungry. 'Cause I'm not listening!"

"Okay, I won't."

******

"I tolja' it wouldn't take very long," Trunks bragged, his expression gloating as he and Kioku soared over the broken terrain, high above the ground, a mere three hours after their first disastrous attempt at flying.

"I know, I know," Kioku rolled his eyes, not really listening. Trunks had been right, after all, so Kioku supposed he was allowed his moment of glory. "It's fun, you're right."

"It's kinda' cold, though," Trunks remarked reluctantly, "Too much wind."

Kioku flared his ki so he was surrounded by a bright, white flame. "Just power up, silly. That keeps you warm. 'Least, that's what Gohan used to do when he was cold."

Trunks followed Kioku's advice, and soon he flashed his friend a thumb's up. "Thanks, Kiku! You're pretty smart, for an alien."

"Thanks a lot. At least I'm a real alien, not just half of one."

"Hey!"

They both laughed, and continued flying.

Kioku wasn't sure how long they flew, but some time later, he saw something on the horizon. It looked like smoke that came from a smouldering campfire, except on a much larger scale; amorphous, dirty, brownish-black smoke was pouring up from the ground a few miles away, and Kioku cocked a brow ridge curiously. For a campfire to make that much smoke, it would have to be the size of an entire city!

A city?!

"Trunks-kun!" Kioku shouted, slamming to a halt in the air. His companion shot past him in confusion before turning around and flying back. "Lookit the smoke! I think the jinzouningen just attacked a city!"

Trunks followed Kioku's wavering pointing finger to the site of the destruction, and he shouted a Vegeta-san word. "I think you're right. What do we do?"

"I - I don't know . . . I wanna' go help, but . . ." Kioku chewed his lip, wincing as his fangs bit through the soft flesh and he started bleeding. "We can't do anything!"

Light . . . an explosion of light, so startlingly bright that the entire landscape was illuminated to a white glare. The only sound was that of an enormous energy blast being powered up, drowning out the noise of a small boy whimpering.

He looked around, saw Gohan huddled in the middle of the battlefield, crouching with his hands held in front of his face. Like that would be able to protect him! Paralyzed with fear, he watched as Nappa brought his arm back, one hand glowing.

Fear? Why was he afraid? The blast wasn't pointed at him! It was pointed at Gohan - and Gohan was afraid enough that he didn't need anyone else fearing for him.

I have to help.

The thought burned through his brain, searing almost to the point of pain, and it surprised him. Help? How could he help? He had already proven he was powerless against the behemoth of a warrior . . . the Saiyajin had shown his brute strength was superior. What could he do?

Memories of Gohan began to flood him, beginning with the child's first day of training to one of the last, and without thinking, he began to run. He didn't care that he might - or probably would - die. He didn't care that he might not be able to help at all. He didn't care. He didn't CARE!

He couldn't stand there and not do anything . . . no matter what the outcome, he had to help . . .

Kioku clenched his jaw firmly, and he looked at Trunks. He could see his friend was startled by his change of expression, but he barely noticed. "We've gotta' help anyway," he declared firmly, feeling his heart fluttering in his chest. He was afraid - deathly afraid - but knew he would never be able to live with himself if he didn't go. "Father would've gone to help, even if he couldn't win. We're the only ones around here who have any power to help at all."

Trunks swallowed a few times, obviously petrified, then a determined scowl darkened his features. "Right. Let's go! There's gotta' be some survivors down there somewhere."

As they dove toward the ruined city, Kioku tried to ignore the pounding in his chest, the feeling that his heart was going to explode from fear. He didn't let himself think of the possible consequences of his actions; didn't allow himself to consider the possibility that one - or both - of them might not make it out alive.

He deliberately didn't think of his mother in that situation. Thinking of Mom's face would definitely not be good. It would shatter his resolve completely, to picture the way her black eyes would well up with tears, and how she would try to be brave for a few seconds . . . but would soon burst out crying . . .

Stop it!! Kioku told himself firmly. He didn't need emotions right now. Attachments were good, yes, but they had no place on the battlefield. Gohan had written, in his journal, that Father said emotion and feeling were to be left behind before every battle. They could be picked up once more afterward, but what was needed in a fight was cold, unhindered calculation. Rushing into a fight on a blaze of passion would only get you killed.

As soon as he was hovering above the city, Kioku's sharp ears picked up the myriad sounds from the massacre; yells of survivors, agonized weeping . . . the cries of children, buildings collapsing . . . and far away, on the other side of the city, the sounds of energy blasts, screams of pain, and someone laughing hysterically.

His eyes narrowed, and with a sharp nod at Trunks, the Namekusejin child shot to the ground. He landed quickly, surveying his surroundings, and was able to zone in on the location where most of the people were crying. A large apartment building was falling apart, and from the number of cries for help coming from it, there were many people still trapped inside.

"C'mon!" Kioku urged Trunks, taking control of the situation. It was rather surprising, since Trunks had always been the instigator, but Kioku didn't even think about the change in command. He, with all his memories, had years of combat experience in his mind, whereas Trunks had none. Trunks dashed forward into the crumbling building, searching for people stuck in the rubble.

Someone shouted at them to get away, that it wasn't safe, but Kioku didn't listen. He closed his eyes, clenched his fist, and concentrated fiercely, forcing himself to focus his energy until he could almost "see" the scene in his brain. He manipulated the mental image, lifting broken chunks of concrete and steel with his mind. Unconsciously, he began to hum, the deep, growling sound running beneath the noises of chaos in the rest of the city.

People around him gasped, and Kioku cracked one eye open. He had practised with telekinesis before, lifting a reluctant and indignant Trunks several times, and had become quite skillful with manipulating boulders. The pieces of the apartment building weren't much more difficult, and he managed to toss away loose chunks while keeping the remainder of the building upright. Sweat beaded up on his forehead and began rolling down his face, but Kioku didn't care.

Thank you, Father, he thought gratefully, remembering how his father had lifted pyramids with his mind. Kioku was nowhere near that calibre of strength, but the task at hand wasn't particularly hard.

At last, Trunks ran up to him, declaring he had rescued the remaining survivors. Kioku lowered the apartment to the ground slowly, not allowing it to crash and endanger more people, and once he opened his eyes fully, was knocked over by a crowd of grateful parents and friends. Everyone thanked him and Trunks, hugging them and patting their heads, wondering at their strength. Trunks was making faces like someone had thrown up on his food or something, but Kioku didn't really mind. It was the first time he had ever really been thanked before.

The next instant, the world was ablaze in a flash of yellow, and the distant sound of energy blasts was almost deafening. Kioku was barely aware of squeezing his eyes shut and erecting a hasty energy shield, trying to ignore the heat that tore at his skin. Within seconds it was over, and he straightened.

All around him were the disintegrated, mutilated corpses of everyone he had tried to save. Next to him, Trunks let out a choked whimper and covered his nose; the stench from the mangled bodies was suddenly overwhelming - sharp and pungent and sickening, making Kioku's insides churn. The smell immediately conjured up dozens of memories associated with that type of carnage, but Kioku shoved them back.

"That was a nice bit of rescuing," said a girl behind him, "Too bad they all died anyway. You shouldn't have gotten involved, brats."

Kioku jumped and spun around, skidding on the loose asphalt, and his breath was instantly stolen from him. A dark-haired boy and a blonde-haired girl stood casually on the sidewalk, smirking confidently. Kioku recognized that look from Father's memory - it was the one Vegeta-san had worn, when he had first come to the planet to kill everyone. It was the smile of somebody who knew he couldn't be beaten. A chill ran through him, paralyzing his muscles, and Kioku shivered. "You're the jinzouningen," he hissed. He heard Trunks suck in his breath sharply, uttering a virulent curse.

The boy - #17, Kioku remembered . . . his name, if that's what it was, was #17 - raised an eyebrow. "My, my. Such filthy language for a little kid! Something's got you upset - what would that be? You're not bothered by a little death, are you?"

"A little death?!" Trunks screamed, unable to control himself, and Kioku watched as his energy aura flared up, first white, then blue, then finally, yellow. "A little death? You killed a city! You killed thousands of cities!"

"I know. What's it to you?" #17 smiled, and waved his hands at what was left of the bodies. "Were they friends of yours?"

"They don't have to be friends of mine," Trunks snarled, but Kioku's vocal cords were still locked in fear. He wanted to tell Trunks to shut up, but he couldn't. "I don't care who you killed. It's not right!"

The girl, #18, took a step backwards, and she peered at Kioku intently. He was incredibly uncomfortable under her scrutiny, and suddenly #18 was directly in front of him, having phased in and out of view in less than a second. She grabbed him by one ear, lifting him off the ground to be on her eye level, and Kioku winced. The ears were the second-most sensitive part of a Namekusejin's body, after the antennae. She frowned thoughtfully, ignoring Kioku's terror, then grinned.

"I knew I recognized you. You're that kid who showed up after a battle a few years ago," she glanced over her shoulder at her brother. "Hey, #17, don't you remember? These are the kids who came after we killed Son Goku and his friends. I think the human is Vegeta's brat, and this green freak . . . who knows, but he was with them."

Kioku scowled, but #17 spoke up, interrupting him before he was able to say anything. "Yeah, I guess the purple-haired kid does look like Vegeta. Yuck. Poor him!" both jinzouningen chuckled at that, ignoring the glares both children were sending them.

#18 dropped Kioku rather unceremoniously, but to his credit Kioku managed to land on his feet. "So what do you want, anyway?" #18 asked with an almost congenial inquisitiveness that Kioku would have believed, had her eyes not snapped with malice. "If you're trying to find a way to see your fathers again, we can arrange that."

"No. We wanna' fight you," Trunks declared arrogantly in a mannerism that briefly sparked Kioku's memory of Vegeta-san. "Unless you're scared."

Trunks-kun, don't push it . . . Kioku warned his friend silently, watching the jinzouningen's faces. #17 merely stared at Trunks like the demi-Saiyajin had miraculously spouted a third eye or something, and #18's eyebrows lifted, one lip twitching as she fought not to laugh again. Kioku, despite the fear hammering in his chest, was surprised - this was not how he had pictured the jinzouningen to be. They were harsh, merciless killers. They weren't supposed to have a sense of humour!

"Well, I won't argue with that," #17 raised an eyebrow, glancing at his sister, who shrugged in reply. "Almost nobody's fought back in years . . . even if we can kill you in two seconds, it might be fun to play around with you a little."

Kioku gulped, hearing the invitation to battle hanging in the air like a wet blanket. Nodding to Trunks, Kioku dropped into a fighting stance, aware that his friend was doing the same. #18 stepped in front of Kioku, while #17 moved in position by Trunks, but Kioku forced himself to ignore Trunks and his opponent. He had to focus on #18, and #18 only, or he would die.

If he didn't die anyway.

Darn me for wanting to be a hero like Dad, Kioku thought bitterly. Well, I guess we'll see if I'm good enough . . .

He could tell #18 was waiting for him to make the first move, so Kioku stopped delaying the inevitable. He brought his energy to his hand, spreading his fingers apart, arm over his head. His hand began sparking, and a brilliant white light surrounded his palm. It was difficult to perform this energy attack with only one limb, but five years of practice had allowed Kioku to perform the attack quite well.

"Ma ..."

#18 quirked an eyebrow and waited patiently.

"Sen ..."

Kioku growled, annoyed that #18 didn't seem to be taking this seriously. Just because he was a kid!

"Ko ..."

#18 examined her fingernails as though they were the most interesting things in the world, only glancing up briefly.

"HAAA!!!"

Kioku thrust his hand forward in a downward motion, fingers together, releasing the whitish-blue blast like a tidal wave of energy, straight towards his opponent. Once the blast had been fired, Kioku sank to his knees, panting heavily. He knew it wasn't exactly intelligent to expend so much energy on the initial attack, but he was also aware that beginning with weak blasts wouldn't work on the jinzouningen. He only hoped Gohan's childhood attack was strong enough . . .

The dust cleared, revealing a very bored-looking #18, who was shaking her head in disapproval. "I can't believe you thought such a weak technique would work on me," she sighed. "Maybe if you were more powerful, it might be able to dirty my clothing or something, but not at this pathetic level. I thought I'd at least be able to play with you, but" - she shrugged, a "what can you do?" type of look on her face - "I guess I'll just have to kill you."

She flew at him, and her fist connected with his jaw with crushing force. Kioku was propelled backwards into a half-toppled apartment, and as he hit the wall he could feel his jaw hanging out of place. He winced, blinking back tears, but the injury was less severe than some of the ones he'd obtained in his sparring sessions. Grimacing, Kioku reached up and reset his jaw, hearing the sickening crack, but ignoring it.

"Well, well. You aren't dead after all," #18 reached down and picked him up by the shoulder strap of his armour, studying him with that cold, calculating gaze of hers. "I guess I should give you a little credit - even if that was one of my weaker punches."

Kioku scowled at her and dealt her a kick in the stomach, but all the jinzouningen did was cock an eyebrow at him. "Ouch, that hurt," she remarked sarcastically, "Here. Let me teach you how to do that properly!" holding Kioku at eye level, #18 smiled ferally before bringing her knee into Kioku's stomach.

The Saiyajin armour cracked, pieces of the material crumbling away and falling to the ground. Kioku found himself unable to breathe, pain slamming into him as #18 slowly removed her knee from his abdomen. "There," #18 smiled. "You want to try again?"

Kioku hissed in pain as #18 dropped him again, and he rose staggeringly to his feet. This wasn't going to be much of a battle if he didn't think up something quickly . . .

Any thoughts were erased as #18 came at him again, and Kioku was pushed to the limit of his abilities as he attempted to block the blows. He could tell #18 wasn't fighting at her full capacity, but he wasn't going to complain; it would be hard enough blocking her lightning-fast punches and kicks even with both his arms, so if #18 chose to toy with him, then fine. At least he would stay alive a while longer.

I'm not a warrior, the small part of Kioku's mind that was able to ponder things like that thought grimly, If I was, I'd find a way to win this battle, even if I'm way weaker! He kept moving his hand so that #18's fists came in contact with his palm, and his legs parried #18's kicks, but he wondered how long #18 would keep playing this game of hit-and-block. It couldn't be very entertaining for her!

Think of something, Kiku! he thought desperately.

Stupid Kiku, always being so heroic, Trunks thought to himself, though he knew it wasn't Kioku's fault. He had been just as involved with the rescue scheme as his friend had been. How are we gonna' get back home now?

It infuriated Trunks that #17 was playing with him in such an obvious manner, tossing sarcastic encouragement Trunks' way any time he "almost got him this time" or "could've hurt if it had actually hit him." Trunks didn't like being made fun of; not in the least.

"C'mon, kid, you're slowing down!" #17 taunted, eyes sparkling, and Trunks spat a mouthful of blood at him. He was surprised he'd even lasted this long, really . . . he'd been crazy to think he even stood a chance against the mechanized demons.

Shaking with rage, Trunks cupped his hands to one side of his body and channelled his energy. "Ka ..."

"Oh no!" #17 clapped his hand to his forehead, rolling his eyes. "Not this one again! Do you know how many weakling humans have used that attack? Eesh!"

Paying him no heed, Trunks continued to chant. "...me...ha...me...haaaa!"

He knew the blast would have no effect on his adversary, but that wasn't Trunks' intention. In the few seconds that it took the dust to clear, the demi-Saiyajin darted into the remains of a building, where he hid beneath a piece of broken concrete. Trunks figured the jinzouningen wouldn't be able to sense ki, and until #17 began blasting apart buildings looking for him, he would have a few minutes to rest and think of a plan.

Brute force was definitely not going to work. If Trunks were a hundred times stronger, maybe, but not at his current power level . . . He needed to think of some way to fight without direct attacks. Despite the gravity of the situation, Trunks found himself smirking; this was almost like any other of his schemes! It shouldn't be too difficult to think something up.

He didn't know how long he had, but Trunks was aware it would be a few minutes, at most - #17 seemed to enjoy toying with his victims, but he wasn't sure how long the jinzouningen would put up with not being able to find him. Quickly but without panic Trunks pulled his capsules from their spot in his armour and checked through him, making mental notes.

Blanket and pillow: no; he didn't think #17 was sleepy. Comic books: definitely not . . . he doubted #17 would be interested in reading his dog-eared copy of "Galaxy Warriors." Underwear: probably not, unless the sight would scare #17 away. An unmarked capsule . . . what was in that? Trunks was about to toss it away when he decided that there might be something there that could help him.

Shrugging, Trunks depressed the top of the capsule, wincing as the "boom!" noise resounded through the city, but luckily the sounds of energy blasts covered it. Trunks soon found himself staring at the long coil of lavender hair lying on the cement, and he rolled his eyes up to the sky in a momentary prayer for patience. He made a mental note to hit Kioku if they got out of this battle. Silly little Namekusejin, he never knew when to quit joking ar......

Trunks blinked, looking at the braid, and a slow grin invaded his expression. Maybe Kioku wasn't such an idiot after all!

The boy stared at the braid for a few more seconds, crystal-blue eyes squinting in thought, then he stuck the lavender tassel beneath two rocks that had fallen against each other and created a kind of tent. He prided himself on his ridiculous setups, often bragging that "normal people" didn't have the brains to think up ideas like he did: "stupid stuff" was often the kind of thing that worked.

That done, Trunks scooted over to the far side of the street, completely under cover of the wreckage. He thanked his lucky stars (figuratively, of course, since the demi-Saiyajin didn't believe in luck) that the jinzouningen could not sense energy levels, for he was able to hide safely. He could see #17 through a crack in the cement, methodically searching the buildings, and Trunks grinned; #17 would come across the tassel of hair very soon.

Sure enough, Trunks heard #17 chuckle as the jinzouningen paused in front of Trunks' old hiding place. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," #17 called playfully, parodying a child's game. "I can see you!"

When "Trunks" did not reply, #17 swooped down and latched onto the end of the braid, only to stop short as he brandished a loose hank of hair. "What the -" Trunks watched #17's face spasm with anger, and the jinzouningen spun around, looking for his opponent. "You little brat! I'll get you for that!"

When #17 was looking the other way, Trunks shot from his hidden spot, powering up the attack he had made up himself; the Sugoi Suupaa Kaze Bakuhatsu. Kioku had laughed at the ridiculousness of the name at first, but Trunks shrugged it off. He thought it was a very descriptive name.

Holding his hands at arm's length away from his sides, Trunks shouted the attack name at the top of his lungs and clapped his palms together in front of himself. The delivery was a little less impressive than it should have been since Trunks choked on dust, causing the "Bakuhatsu" to sound like "Bakuha-ha-ha-ha-hatsu," but it didn't affect the power of the attack.

A wall of energy shot out from in front of Trunks like a tidal wave, hitting #17 head on and knocking the jinzouningen, spinning and reeling, into a building. #17 lay in the rubble for a few seconds, dazed and surprised, and Trunks used his advantage, flying to a position above the fallen jinzouningen and firing rapidly.

"Renzoku . . . Enerugii Boru Ha!"

A succession of small but powerful energy blasts shot from Trunks' palms, striking #17 so quickly that it raised a thick cloud of dust, ash, and disintegrated concrete. Trunks continued to fire until he was completely devoid of any energy, and he collapsed to his hands and knees, gasping as oxygen slid unwillingly into his lungs.

"I hope ..." he wheezed, "I got him ... 'cause I can't ... do that ... again . . ."

"Well, too bad for you," the sarcastic voice, coming from the haze of debris, stabbed through Trunks' heart like a knife. "Because that pathetic little technique barely managed to scuff up my sneakers," the smoke cleared, and Trunks saw #17 standing in a large crater. One end of his shoelace was burning merrily, but #17 quickly stepped on it, extinguishing the small flame. "Stupid little kid - I was having fun playing with you, but I guess you actually want to fight now, not toy around."

I did what I could, Trunks thought despairingly, Now what? I guess I just gotta' stay alive!

Kioku coughed wretchedly, violet blood spewing from his mouth as he pressed his hands over his lungs, trying to stop the spasms in his chest. "Stop acting like a baby!" #18 shouted, kicking Kioku sharply in the ribs, and the child struggled to his feet. "You got yourself into this battle; now you're going to have to follow it through!"

"Don't ... worry," Kioku ground out, wiping his mouth with his hand. "I'm not ... giving ... up."

"Very inspiring," #18 said dryly, phasing out and reappearing behind Kioku, where she clasped her hands together and brought them down heavily on his head. Kioku managed to dodge the blow, but barely, and he knew he couldn't last much longer. "But it won't generate any sympathy from me."

He could see in her eyes that she was quickly growing bored with this game, and Kioku realized he had to do something quickly. There was no way he was going to make it through this battle if #18 decided to start fighting seriously!

Suddenly, the roof of a demolished building collapsed, and both Kioku and #18 glanced briefly at it. Kioku was reminded of the apartment where he and Trunks rescued the crowd of civilians . . . and it was then that inspiration (salvation?) struck. Frowning with concentration, Kioku focussed his consciousness on #18, and in the two seconds that it took her to fly at him again, the Namekusejin picked her up with his mind and tossed her across the street.

He heard her yell in surprise, and Kioku squeezed out a tight smile, though he didn't allow himself to dwell on the triumphant emotion for long. Cockiness like that would get him killed in less than a second. Kioku kept his mental hold on #18, using it to fling her around like a rag doll caught in heavy wind, and the Namekusejin rejoiced at #18's resulting inability to fire energy blasts at him with any accuracy.

As long as he could hold out and not break his concentration - and assuming that #17 didn't notice what he was doing and decide to join the fight - Kioku just might survive this battle.

Punch after punch slammed into Trunks' broken body as the boy was pummelled mercilessly by his angry opponent. #17 was still playing with him - if he wasn't, Trunks knew he wouldn't be alive - but it was the way a cat toyed with a mouse right before the final blow. Trunks was barely hanging on to his consciousness, his vision fading into black and back again.

He could hear #17 laughing at him, but he couldn't even muster enough energy to flip the jinzouningen the one-finger salute. "Poor little human - or whatever you are," #17 scoffed. "Not only do you look like your father, you fight like him, too; like a little old lady."

Trunks forced his eyes open in shock, peering through eyelids gummed with drying blood. "What ... did you ... s-say ...?" he gasped, coughing.

"I said, your father fought like an old lady," #17 grinned, pausing with his fist a few inches from Trunks' face. "And when we killed him, he screamed like a little girl."

No, Trunks thought, mind racing with desperation. He couldn't have! I - I was there! If he had screamed, I would've - would've remembered . . .

"What's the matter, kid? Can't accept the facts?" #17 was sneering now, and he resumed Trunks' beating. Trunks didn't even feel the blows this time; his mind was too numbed by the information the cyborg was now giving him. "And you know what's even more embarrassing? He cried like a baby! He got down on his hands and knees in front of us and begged for his life like some weak child."

"No," Trunks rasped, blood gurgling in his throat. "He didn't!"

"How do you know?" #17 pointed out cruelly. "You were what, a year old? Nice try, kid. And do you know what he did next?"

Trunks was having a hard time focussing on the words, since his brain was rebelling against the news and was slowly losing control of his body. He could feel himself slipping, but somehow forced himself to remain in the physical plane. "...Liar..."

"Anyway," #17 continued as though Trunks had never interrupted. Trunks noted the sadistic glee glittering in #17's cold, blue eyes, and more than anything he wished for the power to destroy him. "Before we killed him, Vegeta pleaded with us to let him go. He said that we could kill his son and his wife, as long as he was allowed to live."

Trunks' eyes widened as much as they could, and tears brimmed in them. "He didn't . . ." he whispered, all the fight gone out of him. He stopped blocking, not caring now if he was killed; in fact, he wanted to die. Nine years old and wishing for death . . . it was an odd thought, but no less terrible than his father begging the jinzouningen to kill Trunks and Bulma instead of him.

Something niggled the back of Trunks' memory; he knew he had seen his father's death, and he didn't remember any crying . . . and Kioku hadn't said anything about it . . . of course, Kioku was his best friend and wouldn't want to tell him anything that would hurt him.

He said that we could kill his son and his wife, as long as he was allowed to live . . .

The boy's eyes snapped open: "wife?" #17 had called his mother Vegeta's wife? Trunks knew for a fact that his parents had never married; he didn't remember much about his life before the past five years, but he had a perfectly clear memory of a conversation with his mother. He had asked her if she and his father had married, and his mother had denied it. She said they had been thinking about it, but that Vegeta had been killed before the idea really stuck.

Through the blood, sweat, and grime, Trunks smiled. #17 noticed this, and his eyes widened, but Trunks didn't care. He knew the jinzouningen was lying. Even if his parents had been married, Trunks knew from conversations with his mother that Vegeta would never call Bulma "his wife." "His woman," maybe, but never wife - and maybe not even that, not if he was speaking to an enemy.

The amusement and satisfaction slowly died, replaced by a sudden, unexplainable rage. Trunks felt it start in his heart, like ice and fire together; he didn't understand the feeling, but it was there nonetheless. He felt ashamed for ever doubting his father's integrity, then once again, the anger returned. Fury at #17 for telling him such a horrible lie . . . outrage toward him for killing his father in the first place . . .

Trunks narrowed his eyes, regarding #17 calmly. Though he knew he couldn't expect to win, he had to fight. It was his duty, as the offspring of a Saiyajin warrior, to defend his father's honour. He didn't know what kind of power he could tap into, and he realized even the legendary level of the Super Saiyajin hadn't helped his father or Goku-san, but Trunks didn't care. He was going to fight, and if it was his destiny, he would die . . . but he would go the way of a fighter.

It didn't disturb him that he was only nine years old, and that his whole life was, by all rights, ahead of him. It didn't matter if he died; a life lived in fear, always running and hiding from his enemies, was not one worth living. Maybe it was for some, maybe it was the human half of him that had kept him alive for so long . . . but Trunks' Saiyajin heritage was in control now. He didn't want to die, but he wanted everything to be over. If he couldn't defeat #17, then so be it; but he wanted it to end now. Not ten years from now, still hopelessly outclassed, gunned down like a frightened child.

Something happened, Trunks' energy level flaring dramatically. The power that raced through him seemed familiar, like it had happened before . . . but long ago, when he could barely remember. Trunks didn't care; all he knew was that he wanted to make the jinzouningen pay!

There was no way to explain the power that slammed into Trunks as soon as he decided he wanted it. It felt like . . . like . . . like when a sudden thunderstorm had come up in the desert one night, and Trunks had almost been struck by lightning. The boulder next to him had been blown to pieces, and Trunks was flung to the ground with jarring force. Winded and frightened, it had taken Trunks a few scary moments before he could regain his breath, but afterwards, he'd found himself grinning at the experience.

That was the only comparable thing Trunks could think of. Power raced through him until it felt like his very hair was standing on end, and he didn't even notice when #17 dropped him in surprise. Without even standing, hunched on his hands and knees, Trunks began to yell, that being the only way he could release the energy inside him. It was as though, if he didn't scream, he would explode.

His eyes burned. His skin felt stretched, like his muscles had grown too large, too quickly. He didn't understand, but he wanted more! It was a drug he couldn't get enough of . . . stronger than his love of eating, more intense than his desire to see his mother again . . . it even dwarfed the hatred he felt for the jinzouningen.

He opened his eyes, which still felt like they were on fire, and met #17's gaze square on. Though the jinzouningen was taller than he and thought himself more powerful, Trunks saw something that made him smile; fear. It was only there for a second, flickering in #17's eyes so quickly that it could have been imagined, but Trunks knew it was real.

"I don't . . . it's Vegeta!" #17 gaped, taking an involuntary step backwards. "But . . . that's impossible! We killed you!"

"I'm not Vegeta. I'm his son," Trunks smiled, though it was more of a smirk. He could hear #18 screaming obscenities in the background, and he knew from this that Kioku was still alive. Good job, Kiku! he sent the reassurance toward his friend, and whether he received it or not, Trunks didn't know.

"You've caused enough pain to this planet," Trunks continued, his lip curling in an angered sneer. He wanted #17 to die - even though the power of the Super Saiyajin had failed his two predecessors, maybe it would bring him to victory. The world seemed to disappear; the city, the deaths, his family, Kioku . . . Nothing mattered; just him, #17 . . . and his power.

He drew his hands together, not sure what he was doing, but allowing his instincts to take over. Unthinking, Trunks moved his hands and arms in intricate patterns, like he was practicing his katas at a rapid pace. Hands flying, Trunks flung his arms, palms forward, thumb and index fingers together, and looked at #17 through the diamond-shaped gap between his fingers.

Trunks narrowed his eyes again, this time in concentration, seeing that #17 had regained his composure and was once again looking at the boy with disdain, not to mention self-directed annoyance at allowing himself to be afraid. Without waiting for the jinzouningen to make a move, Trunks fired.

Blue light poured from Trunks' hands, engulfing the startled #17. Obviously, he hadn't expected an attack anywhere near as massive as this one that struck him full on, sending him pinwheeling backwards. Trunks followed, making sure he didn't expend all his strength like the last time, but was shocked to discover that he didn't run out. The state of Super Saiyajin seemed to donate energy instead of draining it!

Maybe I can actually do this! The idea struck him like a kamehameha to the face, and Trunks smiled tightly.

#17 picked himself up from the rubble, glaring fiercely, but when he flew over to Trunks again, the jinzouningen's eyes were lit with something that Trunks could only describe as anticipation. "So you can fight after all," #17 inclined his head in a short bow. "Well, then. Perhaps this will be more interesting than I thought. Let's continue!"

The battle began anew, but this time the footing was not as unequal as before . . . for a few minutes, at least . . .

******

The Son and Briefs families were in the middle of lunch when Son Gohan suddenly began choking on his rice. ChiChi leaned over and slapped him on the back, but Gohan waved her away. "Mom, how long have Kioku and Trunks been gone?" he demanded.

ChiChi blinked, wondering at the outburst. She knew how long her son had been missing; right down to the day, and even the hour, when despair struck her particularly hard. Lately, however, she had begun to come to terms with the fact that her baby boy was not going to return to her; five years was far too long for a three-year-old to survive on his own.

"Why, Gohan-chan? You know how long he's been gone."

Gohan's eyes were wide, and he had paused with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth, food dropping to his plate unnoticed. "I - I just felt his energy, Mom. His and Trunks'. They - they . . ." the teenager stood up from the table abruptly, knocking his chair over with a loud clatter. "They're fighting the jinzouningen, Mom! I can sense their energies. They made it! They're actually doing it!"

Any elation ChiChi might have felt at the news quickly evaporated at the look on Gohan's face. "Gohan-chan, you aren't going to find them, are you? How - how can you tell it's really them? What if you risk your life to find them, and it turns out that it's someone else, and then you get killed by the jinzouningen and I've lost both my children? I'm not letting you go, Gohan-chan!"

But just like every other time ChiChi tried to reason with him, Gohan spun on his heel and stalked out of the kitchen. ChiChi buried her face in her hands as she heard his energy flare as her only remaining son flew off . . . again . . .

******

"Brat!" #18 yelled furiously, firing energy blasts from her palms. The deadly attacks, fended off by Kioku's telekinetic shield, resulted in nothing but a colourful light show - and this enraged #18 into a berserker frenzy.

Kioku had given up trying to control #18's movements; she was too strong, and once the element of surprise had worn off, #18 had escaped. The Namekusejin was now huddled in the street, arm flung defensively in front of his face, projecting an energy shield powerful enough to deflect anything #18 shot at him.

He could see Trunks, across the street, fighting with #17. The demi-Saiyajin had changed dramatically - his hair, his eyes, his power . . . even his energy aura was yellow instead of white. It frightened Kioku, to feel the deadly rage that resided within his friend, to see the anger contorting the child's round face. Trunks seemed so much older than he really was . . . it was scary! Yet, Kioku was proud, too. He knew, without any doubts, that his best friend had reached the coveted plateau of the Super Saiyajin. He had ascended without Kioku's help, without training or guidance . . . he had done it himself.

Kioku didn't know how long Trunks would be able to stand up against #17, but it was more than Kioku was doing. At least Trunks could fight, when Kioku could only throw up a shield and hope the jinzouningen would grow bored and leave. Kioku was useless.

Frustration boiled up inside Kioku like acid over a Bunsen burner, but it wasn't merely his own emotions. Somehow, he knew that part of his anger belonged to Father; bitterness due to the Saiyajin ability to leave all other fighters behind. Kioku had memories of dozens of battles where Dad had surpassed Father, leaving Father to be rescued by Dad. The cycle was continuing once again.

Or was it? A pain-filled scream caught Kioku's attention, and he whipped his head around, still careful to leave his shield at full power. The sight caused the child to stagger and cry out in fear. His ki shield flickered, but held.

Trunks had lost his advantage. He had surprised #17, but that was over; the jinzouningen was angry now, and was not about to let a mere boy get away with making a fool out of him. The game had gone on long enough.

The golden-haired fighter was down, face-first in the concrete, #17's sneakered foot firmly planted on the back of Trunks' head. Trunks was yelling in agony and fear as his face was crushed into the broken cement, and his cries tore through Kioku's ears like a firebrand. #18 stopped firing at him and turned to watch, grinning as #17 continued grinding Trunks' head into the ground. Kioku covered his ear, but it didn't help.

The air seemed to get heavy all of the sudden, like the oxygen had turned into lead and was intent on squishing Kioku into a little green Namekusejin pancake. His thoughts grew muddled as he watched Trunks being pressed deeper and deeper into the street, and no matter what he tried to do, he couldn't move.

He could hear a wet cracking and popping noise, and for the life of him, Kioku couldn't figure out what it was. It conjured up a memory of Trunks eating some animal he had killed; when he pulled the meat off the bones and it made a nasty crunching, crackling sound. It had turned Kioku's stomach even then, but now it was a hundred times worse. He didn't know if it was his bones that were cracking from the strain, or what it -

Trunks had stopped screaming.

#17 carefully pulled his foot out from Trunks' head - was that his head? It didn't look like it . . . It looked like a watermelon that had been dropped and split open. Trunks' face was hidden, thankfully, by a loose chunk of asphalt, so Kioku didn't have to see that. He could see his hair, though, matted with crimson blood, stuck together in wet clumps. He could see bones sticking out from Trunks' head, and pieces on the sidewalk, and blood. Lots of blood. It was everywhere, pooling out from cracks in Trunks' skull and slowly staining the road a dark red.

Kioku managed to pull himself together, tearing his gaze away from the grisly scene, but as rage flooded him, his mind snapped. He didn't know how to explain it, but all of the sudden every single memory of Father, Kami-sama, Neru, and Daimaou Piccolo slammed into his head. He couldn't figure out why that happened, but along with the memories - and the accompanying confusion - came incredible power. He wondered if it was comparable to what Trunks had been feeling.

With a roar of anguish, tears streaming from his eyes, Kioku launched himself at the jinzouningen.

He didn't know how long the battle lasted. He didn't even remember the battle, much less details. However long a time period it was, it was just a blur . . . an inseparable mix of pain, angst, energy, and rage. He didn't remember what happened, who was winning, or how badly injured he was. All he knew was that all of a sudden, something slammed into him, knocking him to the ground near Trunks' body.

He couldn't open his eyes. He was too tired. Pain stabbed at every inch of his body, and he felt like all his skin had been burned off. Maybe it had - he didn't know. All he knew was that he had never hurt so much in his entire life. It didn't make it any better that he didn't know who he was; so many memories, so many lifetimes, were crammed into his head that he was confused beyond measure. He was a little child. He was that child's father, a powerful warrior. He was the last fighter on a dying planet. He was the Guardian of Earth. He was a demon. He was all of them.

Who am I? the agonized thought crept into his brain, the very neurons burning from the impulses needed to create the thought. Who is the real me?

"Kioku! Trunks!" the voice tore through his mind, making him wince inwardly. Even that noise, far away, hurt just as much as someone shoving a molten-hot iron rod in his ear. "Oh no! Please, tell me you guys are okay!"

He wanted to answer, but the chemical impulses from his brain to his mouth weren't moving. Nothing was moving, nothing was working. Of course I'm okay, he yelled the thought, no matter how much it hurt. I just feel broken. I'm not dead, though.

". . . No . . . Kioku . . ." he felt hands slide under what was left of his body, whatever hadn't been blown away, and their touch was like fire. "Kioku, you can't be dead. That'll kill Mom, if you don't come back to her!"

Kioku . . . is that me? No, it can't be me. Kioku's dead. I'm not dead.

". . . no . . ." the voice - Gohan! He realized suddenly. The voice belonged to Gohan! Two of the people inside him felt insanely happy at the knowledge. Gohan sounded like he was overcome with grief, his voice shaking uncontrollably, breaking occasionally. "I'm so sorry . . . you never should've fought them alone. Never! How could you possibly think you could beat them? You - you never stood a chance . . ."

I'm not dead, he insisted vehemently, though his protests went unheard. I'm just tired! I'm okay - I'm alive. Why do you think I'm dead?

Something wet splashed onto his face from above, feeling like liquid flames were trailing down his face. Gohan was crying? "I'll never forgive myself," Gohan's voice was husky now. "Never! It's my fault you two were killed . . . it's all my fault!"

Gohan began screaming, and power surged around him like lightning. He's a Super Saiyajin, he thought, though he didn't know where the knowledge came from.

I'm not dead . . .

Something was wrong. His brain was shutting down. He couldn't hear anything anymore. I'm not dead! He shouted, but no one answered.

Don't leave me here. Don't bury me, don't give me a funeral. I'm still alive!

The pain was fading, being replaced by a coldness that seemed to come from nowhere. A minute later, all feeling in his body was gone. It was almost like he was floating.

I'm not dead. Please . . . don't leave me . . .

But even his thoughts were slipping now. Try as he might, he couldn't form anything coherent in his mind anymore. A darkness even blacker than the voice already surrounding him engulfed him. It was as though everything about him - his body, his soul - was slowly vanishing. He didn't know where he was going. All he knew was that he didn't want to go there. Not without Gohan. Not without Mom.

N-not . . . d . . d . . . e . . .

Too late. What was left of his consciousness disappeared, like water down a drain. Whatever it was that made him who he was . . . it was gone.

And then, there was nothing to greet him but a cold, endless darkness.

******

A/N: Yes. I killed them. Even I can't believe I did that! Keep in touch, though - it's not quite over. And don't kill me!