Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Deeper Than Colour -- The Kioku Story ❯ Death of Dreams, Birth of Despair ( Chapter 6 )

Disclaimer: I don't own DB/Z/GT. I'm finally getting DBGT in Japanese raw, so that's good! No waiting for the English dubs two years from now!!!

A/N: Wow … I wasn't expecting so many explosive responses for that last chapter, but I'm glad I got them. It's nice to know that I've written a character well enough that everyone was able to relate to him. It makes me very proud! (Of course, I can't take all the credit. Kioku's natural endearing qualities make it quite easy.)

Anyway. I'm sorry they died, but I'm not sorry I killed them. It had to happen, people! Otherwise it wouldn't realistic. However. This chapter is from the POV's of Gohan, ChiChi, and Bulma. It's a tearjerker, so watch it.

Deeper Than Colour - The Kioku Story

Chapter Six: Death of Dreams, Birth of Despair

"It's my fault . . . this is . . . all . . . my fault . . ."

Son Gohan struggled to keep the tattered shreds of his composure together as he raced through the sky, not wanting to drop the two precious bundles he carried, wrapped in his shirt. He gave silent thanks that his t-shirt was black; that way, the violet and crimson blood stains didn't show through. If it weren't for the wetness seeping through the fabric, warm and sticky, soaking Gohan's arms and chest, he could almost imagine he was carrying home groceries for his mother.

Almost . . . but not quite.

Gohan's throat hitched, and his eyes burned as though someone had stuck a lit match in them. Thick, choking sobs rose up from inside him, and he gagged on his own saliva as he cried. He could barely see or think, using instead his mother's ki sense to guide him home.

Home. He was taking Trunks and Kioku home, after five, nearly six, years . . . how he, his mother, and Bulma had dreamed of this day . . . his grandfather, Gyuu-mao, had died of a heart attack the previous year. Thousands of innocent people were slaughtered thoughtlessly each day by the jinzouningen . . . the only thing that had given Gohan hope was the thought that maybe his little brother and his best friend were still alive.

Through his misery, Gohan snorted, and he screwed his eyes tightly shut. Hope . . . what a funny thought - in an ironic, morbid sort of humour, of course. Hope was something invented by the gods merely to torture those living on Earth. Gohan knew that now. Life had toyed with him, letting him think that maybe, things would turn out all right. The fights with the Saiyajin, with Furiza . . . those had fooled Gohan into thinking that there was nothing he and his friends could not overcome.

Then had come the sickness that infected him, ravaging his heart. Gohan had thought he was going to die - was supposed to have died, but Piccolo-san gave his life for him. A year later, the jinzouningen arrived and murdered Gohan's father and his friends. Two years after that, Kioku and Trunks had run away and were never seen again. Life seemed to delight in dealing Gohan bad hands, right after the other . . .

He had done the best he could. He had supported his mother and Bulma, had fought the jinzouningen whenever he could and managed to stay alive each time, rescued victims when possible . . . and all the time, kept searching for the two errant children.

And now, he had found them . . .

Gohan's nostrils flared and he fought the fresh onslaught of tears, but it was about as effective as attempting to fight the jinzouningen blindfolded, and the scalding liquid poured down his cheeks. The two boys, looking so much older compared to what they had been the last time he'd seen them, had been lying on the broken street. Trunks' head had been crushed to pieces, and it had taken some time before Gohan had been able to wrap what was left in the top of his gi. He didn't want Bulma to see what remained of her son's handsome face.

Kioku, on the other hand, though battered and bruised with one arm missing, looked as though he had died of exhaustion, probably having gone into a berserker rage after Trunks' death. Gohan swallowed hard, and he forced himself not to remember the grief that had slammed into him when he held his adoptive brother's broken body in his arms. They were so small . . . so helpless . . . yet not, if they had managed to last long enough in a fight with the jinzouningen to get so injured.

"It's my fault," he gasped, shuddering. "If I'd just trained them . . . if I hadn't been such a coward . . . they wouldn't've run away. What'm . . . What am I gonna' tell Mom and Bulma?"

Gohan didn't want to have to think of that. Both his mother and her best friend were strong women, having dealt with the loss of loved ones several times in their lives, but neither of them had lost a child . . . it had been hard enough for them when the boys had run away, and even then they could imagine that they were alive somewhere.

Well. At least they'd been right.

"I didn't get there fast enough," Gohan's voice caught in his throat. "If I had just gotten there a little sooner, I would've . . . I could've . . ."

But he didn't know what he could have done. If he'd attempted to save the children, the jinzouningen would have killed them immediately, just to anger him. Even if Gohan had rescued them first, they would have gotten in the way and slowed him down . . . in reality, he knew there was nothing he could have done.

That didn't help, of course - all it did was make Gohan feel a hundred times worse than he did before, taunting him with his own ineffectiveness. He called himself a warrior, the son of the great Son Goku . . . and he couldn't even save two young boys.

His mouth set in a grim line, Gohan squared his shoulders, clutched the boys' bodies to his chest, and doubled his speed. No use delaying what had to be done - and definitely no point to encouraging his mother any more than he had already.

******

"No . . . gods, no! Kioku-chan!"

Son ChiChi stared at the torn, disheveled body of her youngest son, who was lying on the couch in Capsule Corp.'s reception room. "Kioku-chan . . . you can't be . . . you can't be d- . . . it can't be you . . ."

But there was no mistaking him - not just because of the distinctive Namekusejin features such as the skin, ears, and fangs, but also little things that only she noticed. The tiny nose, turned upward like that of his birth father. The frown lines between his eyes, inherited from watching Goku concentrate . . . characteristics that ChiChi had memorized when Kioku lived at home, and had used to comfort herself during his absence.

Gone, however, was the brilliant smile that would brighten his entire face like he had been lit from within by a gigantic candle; the smile that had been uncharacteristic of Piccolo, but so totally Kioku. Gone also was the mischievous glitter in his black eyes, the challenging lift of one brow ridge. Instead of these, Kioku's broken face was disfigured and mangled, bones smashed, violet blood leaking from the orifices, and a look of terror warped his childish, yet beautiful, features. One arm was missing, his back was broken . . . ChiChi restrained a sob that she felt would have torn her in two.

"My baby . . . my little baby . . ." her voice, once loud and strident, capable of stopping any misbehaver in his tracks, was whisper-soft, cracked and low. ChiChi reached out and touched Kioku's face, feeling the cold skin, clammy and unpleasant under her fingers. She drew back quickly before summoning the courage to close the eyelids over the frightened eyes.

Slowly, ChiChi unbuckled the shoulder straps on the breastplate Kioku wore - she didn't want to bury him in cracked body armour. It seemed dishonourable somehow, and she swallowed more tears, gently removing the armour from Kioku's body. It made no sense to be gentle with him, now that he couldn't feel a thing, but ChiChi didn't care.

Kioku-chan always was a sensitive boy, she thought, grief-stricken, I'd never want to hurt him . . .

As she put the pieces of the breastplate on the sofa beside Kioku's body, a few items fell out of an inner pocket; some capsules, plus four ragged pieces of paper. Curious as to what her little boy had brought with him, ChiChi held up the papers . . . and gasped in shock at the photographs of her family.

Kioku-chan, Gohan-chan, Goku, Piccolo . . . three of them dead, and one ravaged so by grief that he wasn't even recognizable as the cheery boy who had used to be her son. ChiChi's hand trembled so much that she dropped the pictures to the floor, and she buried her face in her arms and burst into tears anew.

Beside her, Briefs Bulma was in no better condition. The turquoise-haired woman was staring at her son's body with vacant eyes, believing what she was seeing but desperately wishing she didn't have to. Gohan had wrapped Trunks' head in the top of his training gi, and through the white background of the Han symbol, dark red blood oozed through. Whatever had happened to him, Gohan had obviously not wanted her to see. Normally, Bulma would have scoffed at such an attempt to protect her, but this time . . . this time she trusted his judgement.

Not that she didn't have a pretty good guess anyway.

As she stared at what was visible of Trunks' body, Bulma's mind suddenly ran back to the night after his birth, when Vegeta was showering and she was feeding the infant. She had been sitting in a rocking chair, cradling Trunks' tiny, frail form in her arms, marvelling at his enormous appetite even at that tender age. He hadn't much hair then, only a few lavender tufts above his forehead, but his eyes were already the bright crystal blue that he would never grow out of. She had stroked his soft cheek with her finger, and the infant's tail had coiled around her wrist in response. He had been a beautiful baby.

Bulma had started singing to him quietly, and though her voice was not particularly musical, the child opened his wide eyes and stared at her, and Bulma could have sworn he'd smiled . . . a few minutes later, Trunks had closed his eyes and fallen asleep, sucking on one fist.

Vegeta had come out of the shower and stood behind the chair, watching her. Bulma was aware of his presence but didn't acknowledge him, when suddenly Vegeta reached down and poked his son's fist with one finger. Trunks' chubby fingers curled around Vegeta's thumb, and Bulma had looked up to see him smiling . . . her Vegeta, smiling!

"He will be strong," Vegeta had professed, carefully extricating his finger, and he kissed Bulma before climbing into the bed across the room. Bulma, after staring at Vegeta for a few moments, had kissed Trunks' smooth forehead and gently carried him to the bed, laying him down between her and Vegeta. It was one of the first true, quiet moments the family had ever shared, when neither Bulma nor Vegeta had kept their guards up. And it was all because of Trunks.

Bulma's throat hitched, as she remembered how it felt to hold her son in her arms, and the peace that enveloped her when she did so . . . in the five years since his disappearance, she had felt empty, incomplete . . . Bulma had never been able to explain the feeling, but she knew what it was.

Now, she could feel the tears backing up like a logjam in her throat, and a small, choking noise escaped her. Cautiously, she sat on the edge of the couch, next to the lifeless shell that used to be her son, and with tears streaming from her eyes, Bulma picked him up. He didn't feel any heavier than he had when he was three years old, though he was limp and unresponsive, and Bulma gently lifted him into her lap. Cradling his battered form in her arms, Bulma rested Trunks' bandaged head on her chest and softly crooned the lullaby she had sung nine years ago.

Across the room, Gohan listened to Bulma's song, and he pressed his hands over his face. He wouldn't cry . . . he couldn't! He was the man of the house now, without Grandpa or Dad . . . he had to be strong for his mother. If she saw him crying, who knew what it would do to her . . .

But as a few telltale tears slipped down Gohan's scarred cheeks, he knew it didn't matter whether he cried or not. Both Bulma, slowly rocking her dead child in her arms, his blood gradually staining her dress, and his mother, stroking Kioku's face and planting light kisses on his forehead, wouldn't notice anything he did.

Feeling broken and alone, Gohan leaned against the wall and let his legs buckle, sliding slowly to the floor. He rested his head on his knees, laced his fingers in his unruly hair, and wept.

******

It was Gohan who had the courage to speak first, breaking the silence that had held the room in its grip for three hours. Well, not exactly silence - it was a silence merely of speech, filled with the sounds of sobbing and crying, but no one talking. Gohan was the one who finally raised his head, noting that the sun had just set, and the sky was a horrific blood-red colour.

"What are we going to do with them?"

It seemed like a callous question on the surface, but it was actually quite a poignant one. With the deaths of the Z-senshi seven years prior, not enough of their bodies had existed for a proper burial or anything of the sort, so Gohan, after returning home and reporting the news, had flown back to the city with ChiChi and Bulma. Kioku and Trunks had stayed behind with Gyuu-mao and Bulma's parents.

Hovering above the street where the valiant warriors had met their end, Gohan, holding ChiChi by the waist, Bulma clinging to his back, had powered up an energy blast and shot it at the city, setting the streets and everything in them on fire. There, with the two women weeping, Gohan watched as the remains of the fighters were devoured by flames, until the red tongues of fire erased all traces that they had been there. It had been painful to watch, yes, but much less than it would have been to have to try to cart home the pieces of their bodies and bury them. It seemed more respectful, somehow, to have their bodies consumed by fire.

It had been strange - again, almost morbidly amusing. Gohan had cried for an hour straight, collapsed on the ground in the middle of all the bodies, but once he returned home and told his mother and Bulma, the tears had stopped. It was as though when the women cried, Gohan couldn't. He had to be strong for them. Even when he took them all to the battle site and his mother and Bulma were in hysterics, Gohan only shed one tear the entire time. He had watched the city burn; watched as the fire crept closer and closer to his father's body, finally catching up to it and igniting his clothing and hair . . . but though he saw his father, Kuririn-san, and all his friends reduced to ashes by the unrelenting flames, he didn't cry. It was almost peaceful, to see the bodies removed. It was . . . warrior-like. Fighters shouldn't be left to rot in the streets, nor should they be buried to be eaten by maggots and who knew what else.

And it gave him a sense of closure right away - a feeling that, despite everything, they would not be back. It hadn't eased the hurt, but at least Gohan knew they were gone. False hope was a killer.

Piccolo-san had been cremated, as well, though in a different way . . . Gohan had built a funeral pyre, out by the waterfall Piccolo loved so much, and had carried the stiff body of his sensei on his shoulders to the site. He hadn't allowed anyone else to come to this funeral; not his father, not his mother, not Kuririn-san . . . no one. No one else had known Piccolo-san as well as he had, and Gohan, still isolated in his grief, had not thought Piccolo-san would want anyone else present.

He had lit a short stick on fire and tossed it on the wooden pyre, then stood back and stared as the flames licked Piccolo's body. It was twilight, Piccolo-san's favourite time of day, and the orange glow from the fire lit Piccolo-san in an eerie light. Gohan had been thankful for that, since it masked the deathly colour of his best friend's skin. He had already massaged the pain from Piccolo-san's face, closing his eyes and rearranging his facial muscles so he didn't look so hurting. It didn't give him any comfort to do so, but it felt right.

Gohan had stood, tears pouring down his face, feeling like a baby, watching as his beloved Piccolo-san was surrounded by flames. He hadn't wanted to stay, afraid of what he would see, not wanting to watch the flesh melt from Piccolo-san's skull, or the purple training gi meld to his skin and be burned away. Fortunately, right when Gohan had thought he was going to be physically sick, an enormous wall of flame shot up, hiding Piccolo-san from view. Thousands of sparks flew upward from the pyre, and Gohan had gotten the feeling that it was Piccolo-san's soul, escaping to heaven, winking goodbye at him. When the flames died down, there was nothing left of Gohan's mentor and best friend in the universe.

After that, the nine-year-old boy had fallen next to the remains of the pyre and cried until he felt there was nothing left inside him.

Now, feeling suddenly cold, Gohan shivered violently and glanced at the two women across the room. They looked horrible, with their eyes red from weeping, faces streaked with tears, the skin around their eyes pink and puffy, but both were surprised at the question.

"Wh-what do you mean, Gohan-chan?" ChiChi stared at him blankly, her eyes red-rimmed. She looked like she didn't want to consider what to do with her son's body.

"Are we going to bury them, or cremate them, or what?" Gohan elaborated, his voice rasping painfully in his throat, and it felt like a large rock was firmly settled in the pit of his stomach. A pounding ache began in his temples, and he closed his eyes. He hadn't realized he had cried so hard. "I know it sounds mean, but we have to figure it out soon."

ChiChi nodded in understanding, looking at Kioku, brushing a hand lightly over his forehead and pushing his antennae back. One of them was broken, hanging crookedly over a green brow ridge, giving him an even more pitiable appearance. "I . . . I see. I don't know, Gohan-chan . . . I don't want to watch him burn, I know that, but . . . on the other hand . . . I don't want to put him in the ground and let him be eaten up by nasty worms . . . my poor little baby . . . he might get scared down there, all cold and dark . .."

"ChiChi!" Bulma said sharply, glancing at her, and Gohan was glad she had the strength to be harsh, because he certainly didn't. "Snap out of it! You're just going to make it worse for yourself."

"Sorry," ChiChi sniffled, tracing a finger now over the lines of Kioku's face - up his jawbone, over his cheek, across his forehead, and back again. Feather-light touches, almost as though she was afraid to wake him. "I'm not being very helpful, am I? Well," she snorted, halfheartedly. "At least I haven't fainted."

No one laughed. Gohan got the feeling his mother didn't expect them to - it was a comment more out of habit than anything else. He shook himself, running his fingers through his dark hair, which he had cut a few years back. He hadn't wanted to grow up looking too much like his father, because it was hard enough on his mother as it was. "I could do it, Mom - bury them, I mean. You don't have to watch."

"I'm going to watch," Bulma cut in, her voice trembling but still with an edge of harshness to it. She was building up that wall again, Gohan knew, and it pained him to see it. Pained him because he had his own defenses built around himself, and he knew how much they hurt. "If I don't, I'll never be able to truly believe that he's gone," a single tear broke loose from the corner of her eye, and she swiped it away angrily.

Gohan could tell, watching the two women as they struggled to piece themselves back together, that the period of public mourning was over for the time being. Now came the time for everyone to pretend that they weren't affected, that they could each handle the situation, that the others could turn to them for comfort - and all the while, each would cry in the safe privacy of his or her own bedroom. It was a pattern repeated over and over, each time a loss was suffered.

"I'll come, too," ChiChi spoke up softly, and she picked Kioku up, supporting his neck with one hand quickly, but not before his head lolled about like some kind of rag doll. His one arm hung limp, and she pulled him to her, pressing her lips to his forehead. "My baby," she whispered, waveringly, then her face, too, seemed to harden, and she straightened up. Her arms around Kioku almost protectively, she stood on shaky legs.

"Let's bury them first thing tomorrow morning," ChiChi declared, "As soon as the sun comes up. It's too dark now, but I don't want to wait any longer than we have to. It's not fair to them."

"I agree," Bulma nodded, then looked at the young man across the room. "Gohan?"

Inwardly, Gohan would have wanted to do the deed now - he didn't like the idea of sleeping in the same house as two dead children, but there was nothing else he could do about it. If the mothers wanted to wait, he wasn't going to overrule them. It wasn't like the bodies were going to deteriorate in the hours until the burial, either . . . no harm existed in performing the service in the morning.

"All right," his voice, deep and strong now that he was nearly eighteen years old, was hoarse and ragged, barely recognizable as his own. He sounded like a child. "We'll wait. I'll carry them up to their bed and they can stay there until we're ready to bury them . . . I wouldn't feel right leaving them anywhere else."

Both women agreed, and Gohan managed to climb to his feet, though he tottered for a few seconds and the blood rushed painfully back into his unused limbs. "Here, give them to me," he commanded quietly, but the mothers hesitated. Neither wanted to relinquish their sons; both ChiChi and Bulma held on to the bodies of their children protectively, pulling them close, like if they let go something awful would happen. It nearly made Gohan start crying again, to see the defensiveness spring up into their eyes.

"I'm not going to hurt them," his voice was no more than a whisper now, but he didn't try to raise it. He couldn't have, anyway. "Let me put them to bed."

Slowly, ChiChi held out Kioku's body, and Gohan cradled it gently in his arms, supporting Kioku's head like he was a live infant. Kioku had stopped bleeding hours ago, and now was covered in flaking, violet dust, though ChiChi had cleaned off his face, and Gohan swallowed with intense difficulty. ChiChi stared at her blood-covered dress and arms, and her lower lip quivered, eyes shimmering all over again.

When Gohan held out his arms to Bulma, the blue-eyed woman shook her head violently. "No," she argued, "I - I can't leave him overnight like this. I . . . we need to clean them up. It's the l-least we can do for them."

Silence hung heavy like a funeral shroud, and finally, Gohan nodded. "Okay. You're right. But Bulma-san, you aren't going to like what you see when I take the shirt off Trunks' head . . ."

A few seconds elapsed before Bulma spoke, as she stood with her head bowed, eyes closed, and when she did, her eyes glittered - both with unshed tears and with determination. "I know . . ." her voice lowered, catching somewhere in the back of her throat. "But I don't care."

Again, Gohan could only nod numbly. He knew the bonds of motherhood were stronger than anything else he felt for these two boys, and he handed Kioku back to ChiChi carefully. "You two do it. It's not my place."

Neither answered him verbally, simply stepping past him without saying a word. Gohan watched them go, disappearing down the dark hallway, and once they were gone, his legs collapsed from under him again. He managed to stumble up the stairs to his room before falling to the bed and sobbing once more, clutching the blankets in his fists.

"Why . . ." came his agonized whisper, barely intelligible through the wails that tore loose from his shaking body. "Why? We were so close to finding them again, and . . . and now . . ."

But exhaustion and misery overtook him, and Son Gohan could speak no more. Crawling slowly under the blankets, not bothering to change out of his bloodstained pants, or to shower, or even to remove his boots, Gohan buried his face in the pillow and attempted to will himself to sleep, where he could - at least for a few hours - escape the torment that raged around him.

******

It was strange, ChiChi thought absently, half amazed that she could even form coherent thoughts, how maternal instincts kicked in when grief paralyzed everything else. She and Bulma were in one of the large bathrooms, neither one speaking to each other or even paying the other any heed. It was a private task, the one they were about to embark upon, but one that neither wished to do alone, either.

Slowly, carefully, ChiChi removed the spandex bodysuit Kioku wore; the task was not particularly difficult, since there was not much left of it, and she placed what remained in the garbage. She ran her gaze over her son's battered form, noting how his body, once soft and slightly round like those of most three-year-olds, was now tight and firm, even at the tender age of eight. Corded muscle had replaced fat in his arms and legs, and his chest and abdomen muscles were sharply defined. That brought tears to ChiChi's eyes as well, for it didn't seem right for innocent little children to be so physically in shape.

Of course, Kioku wasn't an innocent little child. He had pretended to be, after his adoptive father's death, but ChiChi had known what went on behind those soft, black eyes of his. She had seen the thoughtful way he would look at her, sizing up the situation and exactly what she was feeling. Even as an infant, Kioku had known when something bothered her, and it used to make him cry when he couldn't help. His innocence had been burned away at a very early age, replaced by a responsibility to protect - one that seemed to fall on everyone who came in contact with Son Goku. It was a role that Kioku, even at the age of three, had seemed eager to accept, though he knew the consequences all too well.

She shook her head slowly, soaking a washcloth in warm water and running it gently over Kioku's face, removing the crusted, purple blood from his emerald skin. She could do nothing for the dark bruises or the gashes themselves, but it helped to clean off what blood she could.

ChiChi washed his arm next, and as she came to his hand, a sob rose up in ChiChi's throat that she quickly swallowed. At age eight, Kioku's hands were still incredibly small - not even as long as ChiChi's palm, and ChiChi held his hand lightly, unclenching his fist, playing with his fingers, tracing the hollow of his palm with one fingertip. He'd had such soft hands as a child, but now his hand was hard and callused, just as Piccolo's had been. ChiChi had only had the occasion to touch Piccolo's hand once, during the period when Goku had been training on Yardrat; Piccolo had seen her crying and had rested a heavy hand on her shoulder, in an awkward gesture of comfort. It had surprised him just as much as it had her, ChiChi was sure, but she had rested her fingers over his for the few seconds that Piccolo had allowed her to before he pulled away.

Now, feeling the roughness of Kioku's palm, the hard calluses on his fingers, ChiChi fought not to cry. Her little boy had grown up so much, and she hadn't been there to see any of it . . . she had struggled all through Kioku's infancy to make sure that he didn't have a childhood like Piccolo's had been, harsh and unforgiving, but for all her attempts it had happened anyway. Nothing ChiChi did to protect anyone ever worked out, be they Goku or either of their sons.

As she caressed Kioku's fingertips, ChiChi remembered how Kioku's soft fingers used to curl around hers when they went on walks, and how warm his hands had been. She remembered how he used to fling his short arms around her neck whenever she was sad, and how he would plant wet baby kisses on the end of her nose. How he would touch her face curiously when she cried, wiping the tears away with one chubby thumb. She remembered how he would entangle his fingers in her hair, how that brought him comfort no matter what had disturbed him.

Almost reverently, ChiChi slipped her index finger in Kioku's hand, not expecting his fingers to close over hers but desperately wishing they would. When they didn't, when Kioku didn't sit up with that gleeful "Fooled you!" glint in his eyes that would make ChiChi instantly forgive him, despite whatever prank he had pulled, ChiChi knew. Right then, it hit her that he was dead. She had known all along, of course, but it was that one realization that drove it home.

Surprisingly enough, she didn't cry. It was as though that thought had erased her grief, for the time being, and all she could do was act on autopilot and natural motherly instinct. She continued washing his body, ignoring the odd bends in his back or legs when a bone jutted out unnaturally, not thinking of what she was doing, but performing the task with a kind of surreal calmness.

Once he was clean, ChiChi looked him over. If it weren't for the broken bones and the various cuts and abrasions, Kioku could almost be taken to be asleep . . . which was how she wanted it to be. She wanted her little boy to look peaceful . . . though he wasn't smiling, he still looked angelic. He was beautiful, ChiChi thought to herself, as she rubbed a finger between his eyes to remove the frown lines there.

Leaving him wrapped in her shawl for the time being, ChiChi ran up one flight of stairs to her room, where she fished around in her closet for the boxes of Gohan's old clothes. Sentimental to the point where her husband and friends teased her continually, ChiChi had insisted on keeping everything her older son wore. After searching through various pairs of overalls and t-shirts, ChiChi finally smiled grimly in satisfaction and pulled out what she was looking for.

A deep purple training suit with a dark blue belt, with orange slipper-shoes and a white cape and turban. ChiChi had once kidded Piccolo that without the latter items he looked like an eggplant, green and purple, but the Namekusejin had just snorted at her and said that vegetables were Saiyajin territory, not his, and that if she should make fun of anyone for wearing that style of clothing it should be Gohan. Now, she carried the carefully-folded gi and shoes (minus the turban and cape, since ChiChi didn't want to dress Kioku in weighted clothing) in her arms, back down to the bathroom.

Bulma was still washing Trunks, not looking up, and ChiChi noted with relief that the lavender-haired boy's head was still covered with Gohan's gi. Passing them, ChiChi knelt down by Kioku's body and removed her shawl, lifting the boy partway into her lap. It took a few minutes, but soon Kioku was dressed in the same guise as his birth father, and the sight made ChiChi smile a little. Even in his state, Kioku managed to look adorable. That thought tore through ChiChi's heart like someone had stabbed her, but she forced the threat of tears back once more.

"I'll be back, Bulma," ChiChi announced softly, though Bulma did not reply, and ChiChi scooped Kioku back up into her arms. He felt as light as the clothes he was wearing, and a small sob escaped ChiChi before she could stop herself. She forced herself to remain calm, however, as she did not want to drop Kioku or anything equally horrible, and she walked slowly, almost regally up the stairs to his bedroom - though all she wanted to do was sink to her knees, clutch her baby to her, and cry.

But he wasn't her baby anymore. He was eight years old - when Gohan had been that age, he had already seen his father die, had been trained by the Demon King and befriended him, had watched his best friend sacrifice himself for him, had fought and nearly been killed in several battles, had travelled across space . . . and Kioku, while he hadn't experienced that weight, was just as much a grown man as he was a boy. Except with Kioku, his responsibilities had killed him.

ChiChi shuddered as she reached his bedroom - she had avoided entering there after receiving the phone call on the answering machine. It had been far too painful for her. Now, seeing the toys and clothes scattered over the room in typical little-boy disarray, ChiChi's eyes began burning suspiciously, but she didn't try to blink back the tears. It would have been futile anyway.

"Sleep tight, Kioku-chan," she whispered, unthinkingly, as she tucked her son into bed, arranging the covers under his chin the way he liked them, and she turned away quickly. ChiChi kicked herself, because the reason for turning away was so Kioku wouldn't have to see her crying . . . it was funny how her habits overrode what she knew was true.

"Sweet dreams," ChiChi wished him all the peace he could have in the Other World, and she blew him a kiss, smiling softly. "Say hi to Goku-san for me, all right, little one?"

Sighing, ChiChi flicked off the light and made her way back down to see how Bulma was doing.

The older woman was bent over Trunk's body, cleaning away the blood and grime with almost military precision, a blank look on her face. No expression at all darkened her features; she could have been washing the windows for all the emotion she was displaying, but ChiChi knew better. That empty expression was the same one that had been present after the city was burned, when she, Bulma, and Gohan had returned to Mt. Paozu, knowing their loved ones would never come back.

At least Bulma wasn't forcing cheerfulness this time. That was even more destructive, and whenever she tried to do it, Bulma had always ended up in hysterics, with either Gohan or ChiChi trying to comfort her. When that happened, the only one who could bring her out of her stupor had been little Trunks, who, as a toddler, would crawl into her lap and tell her not to cry. It took a while, but Bulma always ended up smiling.

ChiChi winced, feeling a fresh stab of pain on Bulma's account. Her baby couldn't help her anymore, and what made it worse for Bulma than for ChiChi was that Trunks was her own flesh and blood, carried and given birth to by Bulma herself, whereas Kioku was, technically, Piccolo's child. It was painful enough for ChiChi to have her adopted son taken away from her, but she realized it must be even worse for Bulma. She turned away, not watching anymore, not wanting to intrude.

At last, a funny, strangled sound reached ChiChi's ears, and reluctantly she tore her gaze from the window and glanced over at Bulma. What she saw brought new tears to ChiChi's already red eyes, and she pressed a hand to her mouth in shock, praying that she wouldn't faint or be sick.

Bulma had removed the wrapping from Trunks' head.

The boy's skull was in pieces, bleach-white bone sticking through the skin, blood soaking through what was left of his hair and matting it together. His face was mangled and disfigured, almost to the point of being unrecognizable, and flaps of skin hung loosely over crushed bone. His blue eyes were glazed and empty, his mouth open and slack. His forehead was open to the bone, as was the entire left side of his face, and his jaw hung crookedly, dislocated. Blood caked his skin, the crimson contrasting starkly with the deathly pallour.

Bulma was attempting to brush his hair, running a comb through the tangled strands, but the bloodied scalp gave way and she was left with a handful of skin, dried blood, and a chunk of lavender . . . a sob rose up in Bulma's throat that sounded suspiciously like she was about to gag, but she continued her efforts, the mask of calm dropped from her face, replaced by torrents of tears and soft cries of anguish.

Pity cut through ChiChi, and she knelt at Bulma's side, slowly covering the woman's hands with her own. "Let me do it," she offered, quietly.

"I can't," Bulma's breaths came in quick bursts, and she drew in a long, shuddering gasp, her face wet. "He's my son, I have to - I have to . . . I can't leave him like this . . ."

"Let me do it," ChiChi repeated, firmly this time, and she took the comb from Bulma's trembling hands. "You relax. I'll do it."

Shakily, Bulma nodded, and she looked at ChiChi with the eyes of a frightened child, trapped in the dark with no clue how to find her way home. "Don't leave him like this," she pleaded.

"I won't," ChiChi squeezed Bulma's shoulder, then gently guided the woman away. Once Bulma was gone, ChiChi returned to the grim task that awaited her, though she pushed back any feeling of revulsion. She carefully combed Trunks' hair, using light strokes so she didn't tear the hair from the scalp, wetting the comb in the tub first so she could remove the clumps of dried blood. It took time, but when ChiChi had finished that task, the mess of Trunks' skull was hidden under his shock of hair, untangled and clean.

It took much longer for the blood to be removed from Trunks' face, for it was difficult to clean the skin where the bones beneath were crushed to powder - or places where the skin had been torn loose, hanging only by a thin flap. At one point she was forced to relocate Trunks' broken jaw, snapping the bone back into place so she could close his mouth properly. Bile rose up in ChiChi's throat on several occasions, but each time she swallowed it down dutifully. She owed it to Bulma, her long-time best friend, to make her son look as peaceful as possible.

At last she closed Trunks' eyes, and using bandages from the cupboard above the sink, ChiChi covered up the worst of the hanging skin or revealed bone. After a while, she could almost pretend that Trunks had merely gotten into an accident while playing, and was bound up nicely so he could heal. Bandages covered his forehead and cheek, and some peeked through his hair where ChiChi had applied them to his fractured skull. It was a skillful job, all in all, but ChiChi could find no pride in it.

She didn't know how to dress him, so she wrapped him instead in a soft bath towel and lifted him into her arms, noting that he was no heavier than Kioku. He actually appeared younger than his friend, which seemed odd until ChiChi remembered the strange growth patterns of the Namekusejin, and she shook her head. So many years of their lives these two had spent on their own . . . and she and Bulma had missed them . . .

ChiChi found Bulma in Trunks and Kioku's bedroom, sitting in the middle of the floor with a pile of capsules in her lap. "Bulma?" ChiChi called softly, a little afraid. Bulma's expression was haunted, and it was impossible to tell what was going through her mind.

"These were what Trunks took with him," Bulma whispered, "I don't want to look . . . I don't want to b-break down again . . ."

"Don't look at them, then," ChiChi suggested, holding out Trunks' form. "Here. I don't know what you want to dress him in, so I just left him . . ."

"Saiyajin armour," Bulma replied in a low voice, taking Trunks and holding him to her like he was an infant again. "I'm sure that's what he and Vegeta would have wanted."

ChiChi just nodded, choosing to leave Bulma alone for now. "Are you going to be all right?" she inquired on her way to the door, and was answered by a nod.

Bulma smiled, though it wasn't much more than a vague upward lift to one corner of her mouth, and it didn't reach her eyes. "Thank you for - for cleaning him up, ChiChi . . . I can't tell you how much I appreciate that."

"No problem at all," ChiChi smiled back, equally as unconvincing. "Good night, Bulma."

"Good night."

Bulma waited until ChiChi had left, her footfalls soft and silent, like she was leaving a sacred burial tomb. Bulma winced, and she stared at Trunks for a few long moments, silently thanking and praising ChiChi for the forethought to bandage the worst of Trunks' injuries, for it made him much easier to look at. She trailed the tip of her finger over the bandages, wondering what had gone wrong in Trunks' head that had made him think he could defeat the jinzouningen with only Kioku as his ally.

She snorted, knowing perfectly well what was the matter with Trunks - he was Vegeta's son, and that was more than enough to explain any hard-headedness and arrogance when fighting was involved. The entire Saiyajin race - Vegeta especially, but Son Goku wasn't exempt, either - was cursed with an insane overconfidence when it came to their personal fighting abilities. Bulma knew it wasn't fair to blame Trunks when it was in his blood.

And now, his blood was all over the streets . . .

"Shut up, Bulma," she hissed, scowling. Her facade was swiftly beginning to crack, the reality of the situation slamming into her again . . . as much as she had pushed it back, pretending that he had just been injured in a heavy sparring match, it wasn't working. Her eyes were stinging.

To distract herself, Bulma picked Trunks up, cradling him close as though her presence could restore him to life. "Let's get you dressed, okay, kiddo'?" she suggested, making her way across the room, stepping over toys and clothes as she walked to the closet. Trunks and Kioku always lived like whirlwinds, tossing their personal belongings everywhere, leaving their toys for everyone to trip over and laughing hysterically when someone did.

The thought brought a reluctant smile to Bulma's face, though it was only there for a fleeting second. Holding Trunks in one arm, Bulma rifled through the closet until she found the Saiyajin armour hanging in the very back, and she dressed Trunks with a strange reverence. First the black bodysuit, which stretched tightly over Trunks' muscles, then the white and gold armour.

Tears slid down Bulma's cheeks as she remembered the look of pride on Vegeta's face when eight-month-old Trunks had stubbornly insisted, in his broken vocabulary, that he wanted to train with his father, and after a few unsuccessful months of trying to convince him otherwise, Bulma had relented. On Trunks' first birthday, Bulma had presented them with a matching pair of Royal Saiyajin combat armour, and though Vegeta had scoffed at her and said that it was ridiculous to dress a half-breed in royal armour, he had rested a hand on his son's head, ruffling his hair just slightly. Bulma caught the look that Vegeta had sent Trunks, and she'd smiled - Vegeta smirked back at her, but something in his eyes showed the thanks he felt.

Bulma sniffed as she tucked Trunks in bed next to Kioku, half-expecting the Namekusejin boy to snuggle up to Trunks in his sleep like he always did. When he didn't, Bulma smacked her forehead and turned her back on the pair of boys, leaving the room quickly. She heard the noise of the television downstairs, and she followed the sound to the family room, where ChiChi sat on the couch, watching the screen intently.

"What are you looking at?" Bulma asked quietly, noting the look of sadness on ChiChi's face as she sat, her cheek resting on one hand. Bulma came and settled down next to her, looking at the television.

"Remember when Goku gave Kuririn a video camera for his birthday?" ChiChi smiled faintly, "And he was such a nuisance with it? Remember, we had a get-together to celebrate, and he ran around with the camera, trying to catch everyone in - how did he put it?"

"Compromising situations," Bulma finished, nodding in agreement. "Yeah. Is this the start of it?"

ChiChi smiled. "Yes, supper is being cooked and now Kuririn starts his little mission . . ."

Both women stopped speaking and turned to the television screen.

"And now: Mission Impossible," Kuririn murmured, panning the camera around, showing the view of the Capsule Corp. compound. "My mission, if I choose to accept it, is to find everyone in embarrassing, heartwarming" - he snickered - "hilarious, or otherwise compromising situations. The purpose: who cares! It's funny! And hey, it might provide good memories somewhere down the road, who knows. Will I accept?" he turned the camera around, focussing on his face, and he raised an eyebrow. "Well, duh! Of course I will!"

Chuckling to himself behind the camera, Kuririn snuck through bushes and flower gardens, looking for his first victims. After a few minutes of nature shots, the former monk gave up on the outdoors. "Guess everyone's gone inside," he muttered. "Well, darn it. Oh well, I'll just have to look in the house, then!"

The screen showed several rooms as Kuririn swung the camera back and forth, trying to find someone. At last, the screen was filled with a frilly, white apron, and a high-pitched voice cried out, "Why, Kuririn! Whatever are you doing?"

"Uhh, nothing, just uh . . . looking around," Kuririn stammered.

ChiChi made a face goodnaturedly, since the next shots were of Kuririn's rear end; he'd hidden the camcorder behind his back.

"If you're looking for Goku, he's with his wife and that adorable little mini-Piccolo a few rooms over," Mrs. Briefs told him.

"Thanks!" Kuririn brought the camera back out and snatched a pastry from the tray, stuffing it into his mouth. "She may not be the sharpest crayon in the box, but wow! Bulma's Mom makes great food!" he filmed himself again, kissing his fingers in a gesture of approval. "Mm-mm! That sure hit the spot! I'm gonna' gain about ten pounds before I get out of here.

"Now where are Goku and - aha!" Kuririn's voice dropped down to a whisper, and the camera zoomed in on Goku, ChiChi, and the infant Kioku, in one of the spare nurseries. ChiChi was rocking Kioku to sleep, and Goku stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed, smiling proudly.

"There, he's finally asleep, the little darling," ChiChi smiled, kissing Kioku's forehead. The tiny Namekusejin was chewing on a soother, making cute little sucking noises as he slept. Several other pacifiers lay on a table beside the chair, chewed to pieces by the infant's sharp fangs.

Goku laughed and crouched down next to them, sticking his finger in the baby's small fist. "He's so cute . . . and so tiny! I don't even think Gohan was this small."

ChiChi shook her head in agreement. "Me, neither - but you didn't have to stay here, Goku, go have fun with your friends!"

The Saiyajin shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Most of them are talking in the other room, Kuririn's disappeared, and Bulma and Vegeta are fighting again. I'm okay for now," he reached up and stroked ChiChi's cheek with one finger lightly. "Besides. Why wouldn't I want to stay with you?"

ChiChi's eyes widened as Goku cupped her face in his hand, smiling at her. "I - I don't know . . . because . . . you can see me every day, but you don't see your friends very often -"

"I'll see 'em again at dinner," Goku argued, "And then you won't let me come anywhere near you 'cause of your thing with 'behaving in public' and all that, right?"

She laughed, her cheeks turning red, and the camera zoomed in closer. "Well, it's true. The way Bulma and Vegeta act sometimes, I want to give them a key to a hotel and give them a week's rent or something!"

Goku threw back his head and laughed, and from behind the camera came a little snicker of acquiescence. "Hon, you crack me up sometimes! That's what I love about you!"

"I think I hit pay-dirt this time," Kuririn hissed, carefully keeping his voice low. "I might actually get to see the two of them let their guards down! Wow!" he paused, releasing a low, embarrassed-sounding chuckle. "I feel a little weird spying, but it's too late to back down now!"

ChiChi smiled again, and Goku raised himself up on his knees, leaned in, and kissed her softly, brushing her hair out of her face.

ChiChi raised a trembling hand and wiped a single tear from her cheek. She remembered that kiss . . . remembered how tender her Goku had been then . . . how he had made her feel like she was the only woman on the entire planet he had ever laid eyes on. He had the special ability to make her feel that way each time he kissed her.

"Aww," Kuririn whispered, "That's so sweet, I think I'm gonna' cry! I've never seen ChiChi look so . . . so . . . well, so not ready to kill someone!"

"Goku," ChiChi mumbled through the kiss, pulling away, "The baby . . ."

In reply, Goku grinned rakishly at her and took Kioku, laying him in the crib gently and patting him on the head. "There," he quirked an eyebrow, extending a hand to ChiChi and pulling her to her feet. "Now you don't have to worry about him."

"You're a rogue, you know that," ChiChi smirked, her gaze flitting over Goku's face, and she ran a hand over his chest and shoulders playfully. "Anybody could be watching us."

"Nobody's watching," Goku assured her, and the camera suddenly zoomed out, giving the viewers a good shot of Kuririn's feet. "See?" Goku's voice carried out into the hallway. "There's no one there."

Kuririn's face came into view, looking nervous. "Whew! That was close. I don't think Goku would care, but ChiChi'd probably kill me . . . Oh well, nobody said this was gonna' be an easy mission!"

Cautiously, the camera peeked around the corner again, and Goku and ChiChi were still standing facing each other, when ChiChi leaned in and kissed Goku firmly on the mouth. She lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck, drawing him even deeper into the kiss, and Goku responded eagerly.

Apparently Kuririn couldn't help himself anymore, for he yelled out, "Woo-hoo! Way to go, Goku! Get it on!"

ChiChi's eyes snapped open and she glared at Kuririn, stiffening and beginning to pull away. Goku, on the other hand, had other ideas; grabbing ChiChi's waist, he pulled her closer and kissed her with even more ferocity, eliciting a startled squeak from Kuririn, who had obviously not expected this. With his free arm, Goku raised his hand, middle finger extended, flipping Kuririn the universal one-finger salute.

ChiChi's eyes narrowed, then she smirked against Goku's mouth and duplicated the middle-finger gesture, closing her eyes and slipping her other hand up beneath the bottom hem of Goku's t-shirt.

"Okay, okay!" Kuririn squawked, sounding panicked, "You can stop! You don't have to act like Bulma and Vegeta on me, now! I'll turn the camera off, just quit it! I'm gettin' some really disturbing mental pictures now."

The pair broke away, laughing hysterically with their chests heaving for lack of air, faces flushed. "Serves you right for spying, you little dweeb," ChiChi scolded, but her eyes were sparkling with mischief. "Are you satisfied now, or do you want to stay overnight at our house, too?"

"No, no, that's okay," Kuririn stammered, the camera jerking as he backed away rapidly. "You guys are really weird! You mean you're not going to kill me?"

"Nah," Goku slung an arm around ChiChi's waist amicably. "ChiChi might poison your food to give you the runs or something, but we'd never kill you . . ."

"Aww, gross! That's disgusting," Kuririn made several gagging noises to emphasize his point. "Do you know how revolting that is?"

ChiChi smirked again. "Or I could just take that brand-new camera away from you."

"Oh no, I'll go terrorize somebody else now," Kuririn laughed, then exclaimed, "Hey!" in protest when Goku reached forward and snatched the camcorder away.

The screen was filled with a topsy-turvy view of the nursery until the camera focussed on Kioku, still sleeping angelically. "This is Kioku, my son," Goku announced proudly, "And he's Piccolo's son, too. Whoa, whoa, wait! That makes it sound like Piccolo and I had a kid together!" he hurriedly turned the camera around, filming himself with a panicked expression on his face. "That's not what happened, really!" in the background were the sounds of ChiChi and Kuririn laughing.

He turned the camera back the right way, zooming in close on ChiChi's face. "And this is my wife, the prettiest girl this side of Namekusei . . . well, where it used to be. Isn't that right, ChiChi?"

ChiChi's face turned even redder, and she placed her hand over the camera lens. "Goku, stop being an idiot and give that back to Kuririn. You're as bad as he is!"

The screen still dark, only the sound of Goku's voice filtered through. "Don't you think ChiChi's pretty, Kuririn?"

"Well, sure," Kuririn agreed readily. "I mean, so's Bulma, but you're pretty too, ChiChi."

"Oohh, right," Goku grinned, sounding evil even though his face wasn't visible. "I forgot. You're the one with the crush on Bulma!"

"I do not!" Kuririn burst out indignantly, "She's got a kid now, for pete's sake! Why would I - oh, never mind! Here, gimme' that! You're gonna' embarrass me!"

The screen flickered, then went to snow as the power was turned off temporarily.

Bulma looked at ChiChi and saw that her friend was crying freely, not even bothering to wipe the tears away. "We were so happy then," ChiChi sniffled, "I'd stopped being so uptight about not letting Goku hug me in public, and he wasn't taking off to train anymore . . . those were good times . . ."

"Yeah, they were," Bulma replied in a low voice. "I'd give anything to be able to go back to then . . ."

The screen crackled and came back to life, and ChiChi and Bulma fell silent again.

Kuririn appeared on the screen, sweat beading up on his forehead and one eyebrow raised. "Well, I think I learned a little too much about Goku and ChiChi this time," he chuckled nervously, "I hope these memories are worth all the trauma I'm experiencing here . . . eesh! But I'm going to go to a safe zone now - Bulma and Vegeta are fighting. I shouldn't have to worry about anything like that happening while they're yelling at each other. So! Mission two, here we go!"

The camera moved down the hall again, searching empty rooms until vaguely the sounds of angry shouts could be heard in the background, growing gradually louder. "Oops, I think I'm getting warm!" Kuririn declared joyously. "This should be entertaining. I always thought it was funny how these two fight - they're two of the most hotheaded people I know, and that's no joke!"

"He's too young to train in there, Vegeta, he's not even a year old!"

"When I was his age, I was conquering planets!"

"That's exactly why I want to keep him away from you, you psychopath! I don't want my little baby wandering off and destroying the neighbours' houses!"

"Arrghh . . . Tell me, woman, can the brat walk?"

"Well, obviously!"

"Then he's capable of training! Honestly, he could probably be a Super Saiyajin by now if you didn't baby him so much!"

"Whew," - this comment was from Kuririn - "This sounds like it's gonna' be a doozy of a fight . . ."

At last, the camera showed Bulma and Vegeta facing off against each other, in front of the door to the Gravity Room. Vegeta had his arms crossed over his chest, glaring fiercely, and Bulma stood with one hand on her hip, the other pointed accusingly at Vegeta's face. Little Trunks stood a few feet back, staring at the two of them with a disinterested expression on his round face.

"Super Saiyajin? Do you think I want my son becoming a brute like his father? I don't thinkso, buster!"

"Oh, so he's yourson now, is he?" Vegeta sneered, leaning close to Bulma and scowling at her. "Last time, you were up in arms yelling at me that he was my son, too, and that I should share in the responsibilities!"

Bulma bristled, stepping back and crossing both arms in an unconscious parody of Vegeta. "I was talking about changing dirty diapers, not beating him to a bloody pulp, you insensitive oaf!"

Vegeta suddenly smirked, and he moved closer to her, one hand coming to rest on her waist. "You should see yourself when you're angry, woman. You're quite the spitfire, that's for sure."

Bulma's eyes narrowed, and she snarled, "Oh, so you think flattery is going to make me allow you to drag our son into your stupid Gravity Roo - mmph!"

Vegeta's mouth closed over Bulma's own then, cutting off any protests she was about to make as he slid his arms around her. Baby Trunks rolled his eyes and plunked down on his diapered bottom, then covered his face with his hands and made disgusted noises.

"If you think" - Bulma's words were all but unintelligible - "this is going to do you any goo -" she gave up trying to speak and slipped her arms around Vegeta's neck.

"Oh man!" Kuririn hissed in dismay. "What is it with everyone today? I might as well turn the camera off - I'm gonna' be sick if this keeps up much longer . . ." but he didn't, choosing instead to zoom in on the couple's faces. "Ah well, maybe this'll be good blackmail material later."

Suddenly, Bulma's expression changed subtly; her eyes opened for a second, glittering with something unidentifiable, then she pressed herself even closer to Vegeta, pulling his face nearer hers. Vegeta fought back for a few more seconds, trying to maintain leadership of the kiss, but soon it was obvious who was dominating and who was submitting, and he relaxed, allowing Bulma to do what she wanted.

"This is crazy," Kuririn whispered. "Vegeta's . . . he's letting Bulma have control? Wow, who'd've thought that?"

At last, Bulma pulled away, and by the broad smirk on her face, she knew she had won. Vegeta grimaced, but he lifted a hand and ran his fingers through her chin-length turquoise hair. "Fine, woman . . . I'll wait a few more months before beginning his training, are you happy now?"

"That's good enough," Bulma shook her head teasingly. "You should know better than to try to argue that way, Vegeta. I always win."

"Only because I let you," he grumped, but one corner of his mouth quirked upward.

"That's still something," Bulma tweaked his nose, laughing when the Saiyajin jerked away. "I don't see you letting Son-kun win sparring matches."

Little Trunks spoke up, sounding annoyed. "Trunks leave," he muttered, "Not see icky kissy-kissy," he passed by the camera and waved a pudgy hand. "Hi, Kuri'n-san."

"CUEBALL??!" Vegeta roared, pulling away from Bulma. "WHERE IS HE?!"

"Oh no!" Kuririn squeaked, evidently scared out of his wits, "I'm getting out of here!"

The view from the camera spun crazily as it dropped to the ground, landing on its base with the lens pointing straight up. An angry Vegeta came into view, upside-down, one hand poised to destroy the offending device. "That stupid weakling . . . I'll make him pay for that, just as soon as I get rid of this stupid camera!"

Bulma's hand suddenly appeared in front of Vegeta's, lacing their fingers together. "Aw, Vegeta, who cares? Everyone has seen us together already, and he's not doing any harm," her other hand came to rest on Vegeta's cheek, lightly caressing his face. "Leave the poor guy alone. It's his birthday!"

An expression crossed Vegeta's face that on anyone else could have been described as affectionate, and he mellowed beneath her touch. "All right," he grunted, then the scowl slid in place once more. "But if I see this stupid thing pointed at me again, then that's it!" he bent and picked up the camera, then hurled it in the direction of the swiftly-retreating Kuririn. "Here, baldy! Catch!"

The camera then showed a close-up shot of Kuririn's hands as he caught it, then panned up to his face again. He looked absolutely terrified. "Well, I think that's enough of Mission Impossible for today," he declared shakily, "I - I've come close enough to death now! I don't even want to watch this video anymore . . . I think I'll give it to Bulma or ChiChi. I'm sure they'd get a kick out of this."

Holding the camera with one hand, Kuririn flipped off a jaunty salute. "Well, until next time, this is Kuririn, signing off. Join us on the next episode of Mission Impossible, when I go on another dangerous mission like . . . like filming flowers and bunny rabbits. To anyone else who ever watches this, see ya'!"

ChiChi flicked off the television and looked at Bulma, noting that the other woman looked every bit as miserable as ChiChi herself felt. "Well . . ." her voice wavered and her eyes burned, but no tears came. For the time being, she was dried out, exhausted, wanting nothing more than to go to bed and never wake up. "We'd better get some sleep, we - we've got a big day tomorrow."

She got to her feet slowly, feeling like someone had drained all her energy, leaving her an empty husk of a person. Bulma stayed on the couch, whispering, "They're all gone . . . I have no one left . . ."

For once, ChiChi couldn't think of anything to say - so rather than worsen the situation with clumsy condolences, she left Bulma alone with her inner demons and slowly dragged herself upstairs to bed.

Memories are a curse, she thought bitterly, knowing her words were angry but realizing they were true at the same time. They shove happiness in your face and dangle it right in front of you, reminding you of what's been taken away and can never come back. ChiChi squeezed her eyes shut, leaning against the wall, clenching her fists tightly. It's not right for people to lose their entire lives . . . it's not right!

Of course, it was irrelevant what was right or wrong anymore. Those luxuries didn't exist in hell. With a defeated, broken sigh, ChiChi turned back up the stairs and headed to her room - to the bed that had been half empty for seven long, lonely years . . .

******

The sun was just peeking over the horizon, and the Capsule Corp. compound was ablaze with light - but the beauty was a counterfeit, masking the solemnity of the situation at hand. In the back lot, next to seven other gravestones, three figures stood, heads bent, shoulders shaking, staring at the freshly-dug hole in the ground, and at the casket that lay beside it.

Gohan had risen early and cut down a tree to make it himself, not wanting to use manufactured coffins for the two little ones when their fathers had been buried in caskets made from trees in the yard, as well. The boy had been slightly hesitant to bury Kioku at Capsule Corp. when Piccolo's remains were scattered over his beloved waterfall, but he hadn't wanted to argue with the grief-stricken mothers. They were distraught enough already.

The two boys lay side by side in the same coffin - Bulma and ChiChi had stated that, since the children were inseparable in life, there was no reason to force their bodies to spend eternity alone. Both were clean and dressed, and to all appearances could have been sleeping peacefully, Kioku curled up at Trunks' side like he used to when they were alive.

"I feel like I should say something meaningful," Gohan murmured, standing in front of the casket with his head bowed. "But it's just . . . I can't think of anything to say . . ." he glanced up at the sun peering over the mountain, at the bright splashes of colour in the sky, and he glared. How dare nature make such a beautiful day? How could the Earth be happy when two of her children were being buried? It should be raining! It always rained in the movies when a tragic event occurred . . . why wasn't it raining now?

"You guys were great kids," Gohan pushed his irrational anger aside, knowing it was useless. "You . . . you acted so innocent, even through everything that happened to you, but you knew how to be grown up, too. You went to fight something that even the bravest people on this planet are too scared to. You . . ." he choked, swallowing hard, and knuckled his eyes. He couldn't cry. Not in front of Bulma and his mother. "You were the best darn kids I ever met. I'm sorry to see you go. Say hi to Dad, Vegeta, and Piccolo-san for me, and give them a big hug from me . . ."

He knelt by the coffin and pressed a hand to each boy's forehead in turn, wishing his touch could bring them back to the physical plane. "I love you guys . . . I'm sorry I was such a jerk to you. If I could have even five minutes with you again, I'd tell you how sorry I am, and how much I'm going to miss you . . ."

ChiChi was next, though she was crying too hard to speak clearly. "I love you, Kioku-chan" she managed to say, "I'm going to miss that grin of yours . . . I'm going to miss your hugs . . . I'm going to miss everything about you . . . I have to live knowing for sure that I'll never see you again . . . that you won't be there when I'm old and grey, that Gohan-chan is going to have to deal with me all by himself . . ." she squared her shoulders bravely, though she felt anything but brave. "And Trunks . . . you were my little one's best friend. Without you, I don't think he could have made it through losing his Daddy . . . I want to thank you for being there . . . for taking care of my son . . . I hope you two have fun in the Other World . . ." she squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears leaked through anyway and her words were all but unintelligible. "Give your father a big kiss for me . . . and hug Piccolo, too. If he tries to hit you, just tell him it's from me . . ."

She collapsed, kissing Kioku's cheek, and after a moment's hesitation, brushed her lips lightly across Trunks' forehead. "Have a good rest, you two . . . you've earned it," after that, Chichi turned to her son and wept in his arms, grateful for his strength - even though she knew most of it was a front.

Bulma just stared at her son without speaking, knowing if she did she would lose what little composure she had managed to scrape together. She forcibly kept her gaze away from ChiChi, who was crying fiercely, her entire body shaking from the force of her tears. Gohan had his arms wrapped around her, supporting her, letting his mother get all her emotions out. Bulma chewed on her thumbnail, wishing that she had someone - anyone - to hold her in her grief. It didn't even have to be Vegeta . . . Yamucha, Son-kun, Kuririn-kun . . . even Chaozu or even Yajirobe would do. Just someone to hold her, to take the weight for even a few minutes.

"I love you, Trunks," she whispered, surprised at how cracked her voice sounded. It was like someone had taken every part of her and broken them into pieces . . . and it certainly felt that way. "Half the time you were an arrogant little brat, just like your father . . . but just like him, you knew exactly when I needed you. Even if I did only know you for four years . . . not even that . . ."

She kissed his forehead as ChiChi had done, brushing what was left of his hair out of his closed eyes. "I love you," she repeated, then traced a finger down Kioku's soft cheek lightly. "Thanks for being Trunks' friend, Kioku-chan. I'll miss you, too - and I'm not just saying that to be polite," Bulma swallowed, feeling depression creeping up on her once more, and she mustered up an affectionate smile. "Have fun, kids . . . you've got eternity to play now, and I hope you make the most of it. Bug all the fighters for me, will you? Don't ever stop being pranksters . . ."

That done, any pretense at being strong dissolved completely, and Bulma sank to the ground, hunched forward like an old woman, digging her fingers into the lawn and ripping out stalks of grass violently. She wanted to scream - she wished she was a warrior, just to have the power to blow something up. To do something with her anger, her pain. Anything but just sitting there, alone.

Completely alone.

I don't have anyone, Bulma thought suddenly, They're all gone. Vegeta, Son-kun, Yamucha, Trunks . . . anyone I ever talked to about anything important, anything that bothered me . . . they're all gone! ChiChi has Gohan to take care of her, but I - I don't have anyone at all! I'm stuck here until I die, pretending to be strong so I don't worry ChiChi any more than I have to, and I won't see them until I'm dead. Maybe not even then! Who knows where warriors go when they die . . .

ChiChi roused herself from her fit of sobbing and raised her face from Gohan's chest, watching Bulma weeping hopelessly. It was then that it struck her just how alone her best friend was, with no one left to protect her. Her entire family had been taken away from her by the jinzouningen, who would probably high-five and consider it an accomplishment that they'd ruined yet another life. ChiChi ground her teeth together in rage, then brought herself under control and touched Gohan's shoulder.

He looked down at her, one eyebrow raised. "Go to her," ChiChi requested, jerking her head in Bulma's direction. "I'm fine now, but she - she needs someone to cry on. I'm not strong enough."

Something twitched in Gohan's face at that last part, but he didn't argue. Still, ChiChi pressed on. "Pretend she's your mother, Gohan-chan. Pretend she's me. Just comfort her - she needs someone."

Gohan nodded. "Yes, Mom."

Bulma was still crying when she felt a hand on her shoulder, and her head snapped up in surprise. A concerned Gohan was bent over her, the teenager's face taut with worry. "Bulma-san, do you need a hug?" he asked, and for a moment he sounded so innocent . . . so like the sweet little boy he used to be before all this death.

He sounded like her Trunks-chan.

Wordlessly, Bulma flung herself at Gohan, feeling his arms around her, protecting her, as he rested his cheek on the top of her head. He held her as she wept, her body convulsing like an unbalanced air car, and Bulma twisted the material of his gi in her fingers and buried her face in his shirt. "Thank you, Gohan," she whispered.

"No problem, Bulma-san," Gohan replied softly, "I'm here as long as you need me for. I know it must be hard to lose your whole family. If it helps, I - I can be your son, too, if you want."

With a loud, incoherent sob, Bulma wrapped her arms around Gohan and hugged him, thanking the departed spirit of Kami-sama that ChiChi had such a sensitive son. "I'd like that," was all she managed to say.

At last Gohan pulled away. "C'mon, Bulma-san, we have to finish up," squeezing her shoulder, Gohan crouched next to the coffin and closed the lid, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his heart at the act of closure. He could see Bulma and ChiChi straining for one last view of their sons, but he didn't wait for them to get a better look. It would hurt much less that way.

Using his ki, Gohan lifted the casket and set it in the grave carefully, not wanting to jostle the occupants inside. When he felt the coffin touch bottom he released his energy, and he looked at the others. "Well, that's it," he declared, his voice empty, and he dropped to one knee beside the hole. Picking up a handful of soft, red dirt, Gohan let the soil slip through his fingers onto the top of the casket. Bulma and ChiChi followed his example, letting the dirt trail down like tears. Both of them were bravely trying not to cry, though Gohan didn't know why they bothered.

They all scooped the dirt into the hole then, each wanting a part of the burial no matter how much pain it caused. Each felt the horror at having to bury a son, a brother, or a friend, but each believed they needed to help - it provided a sense of closure that would eventually end the hurt and begin the healing.

When they had finished, Gohan straightened up, looking at the sun, which was now fully above the horizon. In the field a few metres away, a pair of birds burst from the grass, flying about in crazy circles and twirling around each other in some sort of dizzy game. A smile touched Gohan's lips that was neither bitter nor angry, and he watched the birds playing with a sudden sense of peace.

There you are, he smiled at them, I see your spirits in those birds . . . I hope you have fun for the rest of eternity, until I can play with you again . . .

Wondering what Gohan was looking so pleased about, both ChiChi and Bulma followed his gaze to the frolicking birds. The two women looked at each other and shared a small, understanding smile.

******

Wow … poor family! Next time on Deeper Than Colour: the boys in the Other World. But what's this? Who do they meet, what was that about loopholes, and training with who??

Oh yeah - this is to Jesscheaux: I know I use a lot of Japanese, though not as much as some people. I don't speak and write it fluently, but I'm learning.