Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Deeper Than Colour -- The Kioku Story ❯ A Child No Longer ( Chapter 7 )

Disclaimer: I do not own DB/Z/GT. Can you imagine if I did? There would be 2 - 3 months in between each episode!

A/N: Sorry it's so late, everyone . . . it's just because I update one chapter of this, then one chapter of "Damsel in Distress," then one chapter of this, etc. .... That way, I don't ignore either set of fans for too long ...

Ugh. You can't imagine how hard this chapter was to write - and it kept getting longer! There's no action, obviously, but hey - if there was action in every chapter, there would be no development, now would there!

In this installment, Kioku -- well, no. You read it, you figure it out! Hah! I won't give anything away for you this time.

About the formatting - I'll have that fixed by tomorrow morning, okay? I don't think the lack of italics will make it hard to understand or anything - I hope. ()):^) (That's a Piccolo smiley! Kittioto made it up ..... I saw it on her "imood" page a while ago)

Oh yeah - whoever left that last review on chapter 6 as "Deeper Than Colour" -- thanks for that! You made my day - I haven't laughed that hard in a long time! ^_^

Deeper Than Colour - The Kioku Story

Chapter Seven: A Child No Longer

The blackness surrounding him began to swirl and eddy, and light poured forth from an opening in the void. He had no idea what was going on, but four of the five personalities inside him had been through this experience, and they told him to follow the light. One of them snorted at the cliche phrase, but he was ignored by the others.

He wasn't sure to which personality his body belonged, but after sifting through the various lifetimes, he selected the youngest and most recent as the one that fit. The others confirmed this, and while he continued to spin in the abyss that surrounded him, he checked the details of whom he was.

His name was Son Kioku . . . he had two fathers, a mother, a brother, and a best friend. He was a warrior - or, at least, had attempted to be one, since the jinzouningen he was fighting had killed him.

Kioku snapped his eyes open wide (not that it made any difference), realizing for the first time the transition between life and death - was that what was happening to him? Wow . . . despite the gnawing fear inside his stomach, a wide grin split Kioku's face. Cool!

Hey, he thought,I don't hurt anymore!

His next thought was, Where's Trunks-kun?

Anything else was interrupted as his booted feet hit solid ground, jarring slight pain up his legs, then light exploded all around him. Kioku threw his hand over his eyes (Hey, if I'm okay now, why do I still only have one arm?) and peered cautiously between his fingers until the glare receded.

Kioku stood on a long, grey hallway that seemed to stretch on forever, on both sides of him. All around the road floated puffy, orange-yellow clouds, and the sky appeared to be in a constant state of sunrise. It might have been pretty, but the analogous colours of yellow and orange lent an air of monotony and depression to the scene. Kioku felt tired and heavy.

Something bumped into him impatiently, and Kioku swung around to see a multitude of small, cloudlike creatures behind him. He couldn't understand their speech, which consisted of warbles and giggles, but somehow they managed to convey the impression of annoyance. After glancing around and discovering ghostlike creatures on either side of him, Kioku realized he was standing in line . . . and he was holding it up.

Apologizing quickly, not wanting to be attacked by a horde of cotton-candy look-alikes, Kioku hastened forward a few feet. He didn't know what he was in line for, but at least it gave him something to do while he attempted to grasp what had happened to him.

He was dead. That was the safest way to go about things, Kioku figured - lying to oneself never solved anything. Surprisingly - to Kioku, at least - he felt no remorse, no fear, no regret - only a shallow emptiness. Being dead seemed no different from living, though Kioku didn't know why. He knew he should be feeling something, but was at a loss as to what.

Shock. It had to be shock. That was the only explanation Kioku could contrive, and it seemed the most probable one. Once the numbness wore off his mind, Kioku figured the reality would slam into him. He might as well enjoy the emptiness inside him before it transformed into something worse.

Hours passed as the line shuffled slowly forward, and after what seemed an eternity, Kioku looked around again. His surroundings hadn't changed one bit, the line hadn't grown any shorter, and he still couldn't see where it was headed.

I could be here forever, Kioku shuddered, and since he was dead with nothing else to do, the possibility was all too real. I could just stand in this line, moving a few feet every ten minutes, forever and ever and ever . . . all by myself . . . all alone . . .

Alone . . .

As soon as that thought was processed, Kioku saw his mother standing in front of him, arms outstretched, smiling. "Kioku-chan!" she called, inviting him to run to her.

"Mom!" the child exclaimed, taking an excited step forward, knocking the squealing cloud-things out of the way. He ran frantically toward his mother, but two steps away from her, she shimmered and disappeared. Kioku was left alone in a crowd of spirits who appeared to be glaring at him.

". . . Mom?" Kioku repeated softly, his voice cracking with anguish. Tears gathered in his eyes as he realized he had been the victim of a hallucination. "Stupid," he whispered hoarsely.

Kioku squeezed his eyes shut to block everything out, silently willing himself to appear in his home. He'd give his other arm just to be with his mother again, and that was even if he didn't know he could regenerate. All those years, thinking he'd see her again, only to be taken away from her when he was this close to seeing her again!

One of the so-called perks of being Namekusejin was the telekinesis - but Kioku always hated it. Before his death, sometimes at night he would dream of his mother . . . he could see her cry herself to sleep, or look through photo albums until the pages nearly fell apart. At first he had thought them only dreams, but after a year or so, Kioku had recognized the visions to be what they really were - extensions of the bond he shared with his mother. Through their mental link, Kioku could see her.

Now, behind his closed eyelids, Kioku saw an image form; a stone grave marker with his and Trunks' names carved into its surface. In front of the grave, knelt a crouched figure, bent double with weeping, dressed in a black mourning dress. Raven hair spilled over her hunched shoulders, and tears dropped from her chin. Without seeing her face, Kioku knew his mother was heartbroken. Presently, Gohan came and knelt beside her, wrapping his arms around her, and Mom collapsed in his arms, sobbing.

He whimpered a little as the image faded, and Kioku opened his eyes to feel tears sliding down his cheeks. Only soft, broken sounds escaped his throat, and he began trembling, all the while trying desperately to be brave. He had to be strong for himself now - no one was left to comfort him.

One of the cloud creatures flew up to his shoulder and babbled in his ear, sounding vaguely sympathetic. Kioku shoved it away. So this was what it was like to be dead. It wasn't that bad in and of itself, but to leave his family and friends behind . . . to leave them alone to mourn . . . to spend eternity without them, never knowing if he would see them again . . .

He could handle being dead, since so far it wasn't much different from living, except a lot more boring. But to know that he was abandoning his mother to her misery, to live in sadness the rest of her life, was too much for the sensitive child to handle.

His self-control was slipping as rapidly as sand through a sieve with wide holes, and he might have lost it completely had a voice not cut through the inane chatter of the cloud beings. A young boy's voice, slightly scratchy, sounding completely exasperated.

"Lemme' go, you big ugly morons! I wasn't doing anything wrong, I just didn't wanna' stand in this stupid line forever!"

Kioku's ears pricked up, and he knuckled his eyes, drying his tears. Only one person could have that voice . . . and if Kioku was right, perhaps death wouldn't be as bleak as he'd thought.

"Listen, you idiots, my Dad is a Prince! And he's dead too, so if you mess with me, then you're gonna' hafta' answer to him, and you don't want that!"

That settled it. It had to be Trunks. No other child possessed that amount of arrogance.

"Don't make me go Super Saiyajin and kick your butts!"

"Trunks-kun!" Kioku squealed excitedly, hovering above the crowd of spirits, trying to find where his friend was. After a while, Kioku spotted a large tussle about a mile ahead, and he took off in that direction. "Trunks-kun, is that you?"

The scuffling noises halted for a second, then came an exclamation that made Kioku's fears as insubstantial as a cast-off snake skin. "Kiku?"

With a joyous shout, Kioku hurled himself at the crowd of figures. Most of them, burly, ogre-like creatures, moved hastily out of his trajectory, but the messy-haired demi-Saiyajin just grinned like a maniac. Kioku grabbed Trunks in a fierce, one-armed embrace, tears streaming from his eyes.

The two boys fell to the road, hugging, laughing, crying, and babbling all at once. Eventually, Kioku gained some control, and he sat up, releasing Trunks from his death-grip. "I'm glad you're dead, too," Trunks declared with characteristic frankness. "I woulda' been awful lonely without you here," just before the moment crossed the line to sentimental, he smirked wickedly. "Now we can play pranks on people!"

"I know," Kioku's eyes glittered with good-natured malice, when suddenly, Trunks scowled.

"Whaddaya' looking at, ugly?" Trunks demanded, glaring at one of the ogres, who was blinking rapidly and staring at them. "Do you have a problem? 'Cause I'm warning you, my Dad - "

The ogre whom Kioku assumed was the leader, shook his head and pushed a pair of horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I don't care who your father ith," he lisped peevishly, his funny-sounding voice making Kioku want to laugh. "You were cutting in line. That'th clearly in violation of Thection "A23-B12-Alpha, rule number - "

A devilish grin split Trunks' face, and without warning, he grabbed Kioku's arm and took to the air. "Let's go!" he shouted, yanking Kioku after him.

Momentary confusion was replaced by amusement as Kioku recognized the familiar spontaneity of his friend's getaway schemes. "Where are we going?" he demanded as they left the indignant ogres behind, the leader waving a clipboard and pen, shouting furiously.

"I dunno'," Trunks called back, turning somersaults in the air and pulling funny faces to make Kioku laugh. "But it's gotta' be better than listening to that stupid-head."

Kioku's mouth quirked, and he nodded in agreement. "Yeah. I suppose so."

Trunks lifted a sarcastic eyebrow. "You 'suppose so'? What kinda' grownup stuffy talk is that?"

Before Kioku could think of a suitable retort, both he and Trunks were brought up short against something hard and immovable. Pain slammed into Kioku's head, and he clutched his forehead. "Ow!" he complained, hearing Trunks agreeing with him in much more colourful language.

"Your first day in Other World and you're already causing trouble! What are we going to do with you two?"

The Namekusejin froze; he knew that voice! Opening his eyes, Kioku saw a pain of blue boots with a red stripe down the centre - scarcely daring to breathe, Kioku let his gaze run slowly upward, taking in an orange training suit, blue belt, black T-shirt . . . and finally, a familiar, smiling face framed by wild, spiky black hair. A face he only remembered from a few faded photographs and snatches of memory.

Son Goku grinned. "Are you going to say anything, or what, tiger?"

A few more seconds elapsed while Kioku stood frozen, paralyzed by shock, before he was able to regain control of himself. When the dam finally snapped, Kioku found himself in his father's arms, sobbing hysterically, pressing his face into Dad's shirt.

So many emotions crowded around him that he didn't know what to think. Happiness, first of all, at seeing his father after so many years; regret, for being too young to prevent his father's death, and for seven years without him; and finally, sorrow - that he was reunited with his father while his mother was all alone with her grief.

"I missed you, Dad!" Kioku choked out, tears running into his nose and making him sniffle. The inadequacy of the statement shamed him, but he couldn't think of anything better. "I missed you for so long, it's been driving me insane!"

Still crying, Kioku felt his father's arms come up around him, holding him tightly. "I missed you too, son," Dad's voice was soft and calm, not worked up at all, but somehow Kioku sensed the emotion behind his words. "I've watched you every chance I get. Your mother, too."

"It almost makes dying worthwhile, just to see you again," Kioku breathed deeply, inhaling Dad's long-familiar scent - it was one of the few things he could recall without the aid of a photograph.

Dad's smile was evident in his tone, though Kioku couldn't see his face. "I know what you mean."

With that, any ability to speak evaporated completely, and Kioku hugged his father even closer, too happy to do anything else. "I love you, Daddy," he whispered, his command of the language disintegrating into pure joy.

Dad gave him a squeeze, resting his cheek on the top of Kioku's head. "I know, big guy. You're a great kid."

In any other situation, Trunks would have considered it his duty to ruin the moment by making a sarcastic crack at the excessive sentimentality, but his attentions were divided. He didn't even notice the reunion between his best friend and his father.

Trunks was staring, open-mouthed, struck silent, at the man who stood in front of him. Shorter than Goku, with flaming black hair, a compact, muscled physique, and chiselled features usually pulled into a scowl. He wore Saiyajin armour identical to Trunks' own.

"D-Dad?" Trunks stammered, feeling as though everything around him had stopped. He had no idea what to say or do; as an infant without Namekusejin memory abilities the last time they had been together, Trunks knew nothing of his father and how he reacted to things. Something told him, however, that Vegeta wouldn't take too kindly to open displays of affection.

Trunks reined in his overwhelming joy and bowed stiffly, wishing he could hug him, but judging from Vegeta's facial expression that it wouldn't be welcome. "It's great to see you again," he said carefully.

Vegeta's dark eyebrows shot up, and he crossed his arms. "What is that supposed to be? Is that any way for a warrior to greet his father?"

Trunks brightened, but it wasn't just propriety that held him back; along with that came uncertainty and hesitation of completely different origin. Here in front of him was the Prince of the Saiyajin race, one of the most powerful warriors on the planet in his time, and a legendary Super Saiyajin. The proud frown on his face wasn't the only thing that lent an air of aloofness and untouchability to his demeanor. Here was a man who had killed millions, and the aura of awe and respect kept Trunks at a safe distance.

Trunks must have revealed this somehow, because something in Vegeta's face softened. It wasn't so much a change in his expression as something that Trunks couldn't see, but was able to sense. The warrior stepped forward, uncrossing his arms, and he inclined his head in a short bow, acknowledging his son's respect.

"You fought well, boy," Vegeta rested a hand on Trunks' shoulder, and the boy's breath caught in his throat. "You've earned your place among the legendary."

Trunks' eyes widened, and before he could stop himself, he wrapped his arms around Vegeta's waist and embraced him. "They said you died crying," Trunks blurted out, his words thick with repressed tears. "And I believed them for a minute . . . and then I felt so bad for that, and I got angry, and I just wanted to kill them . . . but I couldn't . . ." the rest of his sentence dissolved with his composure.

Vegeta said nothing, and he didn't return Trunks' embrace. But he did not push him away, and that was enough.

Eventually, Kioku pulled back, looking at Dad. His father was regarding him seriously, with such scrutiny that Kioku started to squirm. "What?" he exploded at last, unable to take it any longer. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, no," Dad laughed reassuringly, holding Kioku out at arms' length and studying him again. "It's just that, even though you're a carbon copy of Piccolo, you remind me of Mom. Your expressions are a lot like hers."

Kioku jerked as though stung by an insect. "Hey, speaking of Piccolo, where is he?" at the mention of his parent, Kioku's heart began palpitating so rapidly that he thought his chest might explode. He was filled with anticipation and not a little fear, for even though he shared his sire's memories, Kioku still didn't feel like he knew Piccolo.

Dad's forehead wrinkled in between his eyebrows. "Well, he stayed back at the checkout station," he explained, and Kioku's heart felt like it plummeted down to his stomach. Didn't Father want to see him? "He's a little nervous about meeting you, son - or at least, as close to nervous as Piccolo can get. It's hard to come face-to-face with someone who knows you as well as you do."

"I never thought of that," Kioku muttered, tilting his head to one side as he frowned sideways at his father. The disappointment vanished as quickly as it had come, as was the case with young boys. "Nobody's ever been able to see inside my head like that. It would be like being faced with a living mirror, huh?"

Dad blinked a few times, then his face lit up in a gigantic grin that went all the way up to his eyes. "Yeah, that works. You're pretty smart for a little guy, you know that?" he rubbed a hand across Kioku's head, smiling proudly.

Just then, the group of ogres ran up to them, breathing heavily, their white T-shirts soaked with perspiration. Kioku wrinkled his nose at the less-than-pleasant smell. "Thtop . . . right . . . there . . ." the leader puffed, sinking to his knees, still brandishing his clipboard authoritatively. "Thethe children . . . have broken -"

"Shut up, you fool," Vegeta sneered, and Trunks straightened up importantly, assuming what was supposed to be taken as a princely air, and Kioku couldn't resist laughing a little. "Do you who you're speaking to?"

Before Vegeta could launch into a Saiyajin-royalty speech, the type of which Trunks was quite fond, Dad stepped in. "Yeah, I know they cut line and stuff, but Enma-Dao wanted to see them anyway. So, sorry for causing trouble, but you can get back to work now."

Light glinted off the ogre's glasses for a second, somehow giving an air of disdain. "Oh, I thee, thpethial privilegeth. Well, don't let me thtand in the way of a hero. Have a good day, thirth."

Motioning for his lackeys to come with him, the ogre made a quick obeisance and left. Kioku's sharp ears up his disgruntled muttering. "Ooh, who do they think they are, Mithterth High and Mighty . . . 'Ooh, look at uth, we died trying to thave our thilly worthleth little planet . . . everybody bow to uth . . . we can bend all the ruleth and nobody can thtop uth . . . look at uth, look at uth' . . ."

Kioku stifled a chuckle, and he looked back at his father, whose eyes twinkled with amusement. "Well, why don't see Enma-Dao, eh, guys?" Dad suggested, shifting Kioku to his shoulders.

"Yes, let's get this over with," Vegeta grunted, clasping Dad's shoulder. "Hold onto me, boy," he instructed, and Trunks latched onto his arm eagerly.

"Here we go!"

Kioku's stomach lurched as his surroundings blurred, and his brain seemed to swim clumsily in his head like a dying fish. The sensation was over almost immediately, before it had the chance to fully register, and the shimmering around him vanished.

"Whoa," he breathed, glancing around the room he was now in. The first thing that he noticed was its immense size, which dwarfed the small Namekusejin until he felt positively insignificant. It was a humbling experience when even the footstools were twice as tall as he was. Dozens of ogre-creatures scrambled frantically around the room like ants, carrying books, file folders, and stacks of papers. A larger ogre bellowed orders through a megaphone to the spirits outside. But it was the giant desk in the middle of the room that caught Kioku's full attention - that, and the person sitting behind it.

Kioku had never seen anyone so . . . well . . . huge before. The man, heavyset and bearded, with a pair of large horns on his head, had to be Enma-Dao, whoever he was. He peered at Kioku with black, beady eyes, and the result was that the Namekusejin felt even more intimidated. That was probably the intention, he thought belatedly.

"So these are the children in question?" boomed the Lord of the Dead, his deep, stentorian voice making them jump.

"Yes, sir," Dad nodded, taking Kioku off his shoulders and setting him down on the floor. Kioku resisted the childish urge to cling to his father's pant legs, and he mustered up enough courage to stand up straight, chin held high. He had faced off against the jinzouningen, for crying out loud - why start chickening out now?

"Humph," Enma-Dao grunted, leafing through a book the size of Kioku himself. "Briefs Trunks and Son Kioku . . . an interesting case, you two. The offspring of Earth's strongest warriors, and following in your father's footsteps, from what I can judge. A very interesting case, indeed."

Though his words sounded encouraging, something tickled Kioku's warning sense. The Namekusejin shifted his weight from foot to foot uncertainly, aware that Enma-Dao's frowning gaze was pointed at him. " . . . But . . . ?" Kioku supplied helpfully, knowing the proverbial other shoe had to drop sometime.

"But," came the inevitable addition, "We have a problem," Enma-Dao steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on the oak desk, and furrowed his thick eyebrows. "We're not sure where to send you."

Trunks sucked in his breath sharply, and a panicked look came over his features, eyes widening comically. "Hey, if this is about all the pranks an' stuff I pull, I swear I'll never do any again!"

"No."

"Uh . . . the time I put a scorpion down Kiku's shirt?"

"No!"

"All the times I made fun of Kiku 'cause he's green?"

"NO!" Enma-Dao roared, pounding the desktop with one massive fist, and making the floor shake. Kioku grabbed onto his father instinctively to keep his balance. "Silence, child! I will tell you, if you would kindly shut up!"

Trunks jerked back in fright initially, then glanced at his father and seemed to gain some bravado. "Geez, you don't have to be mean about it," he muttered peevishly. "I was just askin'."

Kioku snickered, but stopped abruptly when Enma-Dao's ears twitched in warning - he wasn't sure why that gesture startled him so, but it had the effect of one of his mother's death glares. Vegeta cuffed his son on the back of the head. "Shut up, boy, and listen," despite the blow and the rebuke, Trunks closed his mouth obediently, and his eyes shone with adoration as he gazed at his father. Kioku smiled a little and leaned backwards, resting his head against Dad's leg. Dad squeezed his shoulder.

A brief thought flickered through Kioku's mind; what if their fathers hadn't died? What if the jinzouningen had never come, and the two families had been allowed to live in peace? Kioku frowned. Trunks would be a lot more sarcastic, probably, and might not get along with Kioku as well - not if he acted like his father. And Kioku wouldn't have to worry about upsetting his mother every time he said something that sounded like Dad . . .

Quit that, a voice inside him chided sternly, and it sounded like Father's, and Kioku winced without thinking. He quickly reined in the what-if's, instead concentrating on the here and now. There would be plenty of time to reflect on life after Enma-Dao had made his decision . . .

He just hoped he could stay with his father.

"The two of you have a very special case," Enma-Dao explained. "Normally, children your ages are sent immediately to heaven. Children who are murdered either are sent to heaven also, or are allowed to return to their planet in the form of another child. However, your cases are unique. In addition to being children, you are also warriors. Fighters who perish trying to save their planets are given special consideration. They are allowed to keep their physical bodies, and are permitted to seek training with other warriors in their quadrant."

"Wow," Kioku's brow ridges rose to tickle his antennae as he listened to the list of privileges. "That's a lot of stuff."

"Yes," Enma-Dao agreed. "Given records of your lives, you two have done nothing to make you unworthy of these honours. Apart from a few harmless pranks, you have dedicated your lives to freeing your world, and helping those whom you love. You more than deserve any special treatment we can offer you."

Kioku felt his cheeks grow hot, and he squirmed under the praise. Though he had lived many years in the desert, he hadn't much time - or desire, really - to contemplate his life and the choices he'd made. He had never thought of anything he'd done as heroic . . . he had a mother to protect and a father to avenge, that's all; nothing that anyone could make a movie or a book from.

It wasn't heroics. It was revenge - and though Kioku was aware of the term "righteous anger" and the justification for it, the idea still bothered him. Despite any excuses Trunks made whenever Kioku brought up the subject - about the jinzouningen deserving all the hate they could get, and they would get what was coming to them - that didn't add up in Kioku's mind.

Before he had died, all Kioku's thoughts had been consumed by rage and the insatiable urge to kill everything. Now, in hindsight, Kioku felt a shudder of revulsion run through him - how could he have thoughts like that? So much hatred! The one emotion Mom had told him to never, ever allow himself to feel, because submitting to hatred was the worst form of suicide that anyone could commit.

The chain of reasoning slammed into him like one of Trunks' flying tackles, and Kioku whimpered in sudden fright. What if Enma-Dao counted Kioku's thoughts against his actions, and they cancelled each other out? What if his "heroic actions" were annulled by his impure motives? Could he be sent to hell for that? He was too young, wasn't he? - but then, most children didn't think thoughts of pure murder, either . . .

Unconsciously, Kioku backed up into Dad's leg, half-turning so he could bury his face in his father's orange pant leg, twisting his fists in the baggy material. Dad looked down at him curiously, tweaking Kioku's ear in a silent request to know what was the matter, but Kioku didn't know how to form the correct words.

Enma-Dao looked at him sharply, and subconsciously, Kioku drew his bottom lip between his teeth. "Rest easy, child," the giant assured him, his fearful gaze lessening a fraction. "Even though your thoughts were filled with hate, what you tried to do was still in defense of your family and your planet. The guilt you harbour for your feelings is proof that it was not in your nature. Your fate will not be decided by the anger you felt."

The small Namekusejin breathed a sigh of relief, though the guilt for his hate had still not abated, and his father's hand tightened on his shoulder - though Kioku could tell his father was still confused. A few seconds later, Kioku blinked. "Hey, how did you know what I was thinking?"

"Namekusejin are not the only telepaths in the galaxy," the Lord of the Dead declared pompously. "But never mind. The question is, which honour do we bestow upon you? Do we send you to heaven, to spend eternity as children, or to train with the other warriors? And whose decision is it? Yours? Your parents'? Mine?"

Trunks glanced at Kioku, pale eyebrows raised challengingly, and both boys shrugged, neither one knowing how they were expected to respond. No one said anything for a few seconds, the warriors looking at one another, and Enma-Dao staring commandingly at all of them. Suddenly, a low voice sounded from a door to the side.

"Let them go back home."

Everyone turned to gape at the tall, imposing figure who stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. One slanted eye was open, almost daring Enma-Dao without having to say anything. Kioku's chest hitched as his heart began pounding at triple the normal rate, and he couldn't help but gawk at what appeared to be an older version of himself. "F-Father?" he stammered softly. The other Namekusejin's gaze flicked briefly in his direction, though without acknowledgment, before returning to Enma-Dao.

"Send them back home?!" Enma-Dao roared, his thick eyebrows skyrocketing. "That is absolutely preposterous! No matter how many special considerations can be made, I can't send them back just like that! Next thing, you'll be saying I should bring back all the children killed by the jinzouningen."

"No, I won't. That would make no sense. The others have no families, and would die of starvation even if they weren't murdered by the jinzouningen again. But these boys" - Father pointed at them, though he never took his eyes off his antagonist - "both have mothers who need them. I don't know about the Briefs boy, but my son's mother, though strong, can't last long by herself. She's seen far too much death in her family to be able to take any more. She needs the child back. I can only assume that Trunks' mother is the same."

"But -"

"More importantly," Father pressed on, regardless of his superior's protest. By Dad's quick intake of breath, Kioku guessed this wasn't accepted protocol. "These children can make a difference. Where Vegeta, Son, and I failed, our sons won't. Not when they have received proper training. There is potential within them that none of us can understand."

Enma-Dao folded his arms, huffing indignantly. "These boys, with more power than you? Pre -" he started to say 'preposterous', realized he'd already said it, and snorted with annoyance. "Ridiculous!"

Dad spoke up quietly, his voice both serious and curious at once. "How do you know, Piccolo?"

Father locked gazes with Kioku for the first time, and the child shivered. He'd never met anyone with a more intense stare, and it unnerved him - it was such a piercing look, like he could see inside people. Father spoke, but the voice that came from his mouth was not his own; it was much older, cracked and wavering, with thousands of years of experience behind it.

"I was the Guardian of Earth," the voice said, finally registering to Kioku as Kami-sama. "Like Guru of my home planet, I am able to sense untapped potential within certain individuals. Unlike Guru, I cannot bring it to the surface, but I can see it, nonetheless. I have told Piccolo of the power these two possess, if they train hard - and if they have the chance to return to the Earth."

Kioku barely heard the former guardian's words, he was so fascinated by what was happening. Father was talking, but Kami-sama was the one speaking! Father, noticing Kioku's bugeyed stare, suddenly twitched, and a scowl slammed down over his features. "Old man, I hate it when you do that!" he snarled, curling his lip so his fangs glinted in the light. "This is my body, so quit trying to take it over!"

While Dad guffawed heartily and the others struggled to keep their composure, Kioku watched Enma-Dao carefully. The giant had taken a large volume from inside his desk, and was turning the pages slowly, peering intently at what was written there. As Kioku stared, the Lord of the Dead shook his head and glanced up, an unreadable expression colouring his ruddy face.

"Give me time to think," Enma-Dao declared, "Then I will make my decision. Go! Leave me in peace. You may return in three hours."

"Thanks, Enma-Dao," Dad called brightly, picking Kioku up again. "We'll go see how the others are doing while you decide."

Once again, Dad placed his index fingers to his forehead, and the room disappeared. This time, however, Father came with them, his face drawn into a thoughtful glare. Their surroundings coalesced into a large field, with long, waving grasses and flowers. After years in the desert, Kioku's jaw dropped at the sight of so much vegetation. On the ground, Trunks was likewise gaping at the surroundings. Not too far off, Kioku saw a group of fighters sparring. He matched their faces to the memory of their corpses, and was tentatively able to identify them.

"Hey!" Dad yelled, dropping Kioku and waving his arms, and the others looked up. Some of them waved back, and they flew toward them.

Small flutters of nervousness began churning in Kioku's stomach as five men landed in front of him. He didn't know what the others would think of him, since had died in his very first battle ever fought. Would they scorn him for pretending to be something he wasn't?

"Hey, wow! You're huge!" one of the shorter fighters exclaimed, grinning broadly. Indeed, Kioku was the same height as he. Recognizing him was difficult without his skull caved in and face twisted in agony, especially with the tousled map of black hair now on his head, but Kioku was saved any embarrassment when he introduced himself. "I'm Kuririn. Your Dad and I have known each other since we were kids. I know we don't remember me, but I sure remember you. You were such a little squirt!"

Suddenly shy, though no longer apprehensive, Kioku smiled a little. "Pleased to meet you," he bowed in greeting, and Kuririn did likewise. The young man grinned again, wrapping Kioku in an impulsive bear hug, tears springing to his black eyes as he commented how much Kioku had changed. The boy just laughed.

The rest of Dad's friends were introduced, and soon after, Trunks and Kioku joined them in a disorganized sparring match that resembled roughhousing more than anything else. Kioku tumbled through the tall grass, laughing and shouting, smelling the sweetness of the flowers and the freshness of the air, revelling in the chance to play without having to worry about anything else. He yelped, throwing himself to the ground in a vain attempt to escape Yamucha's headlock.

He was enjoying himself immensely until he over heard Dad talking to Vegeta and Father. "It's good to see them playing," Dad said quietly. He was keeping his voice low, but obviously not realizing Kioku could hear him. "As long as we keep them busy, they shouldn't get upset about dying."

"Better to let them get upset now than for it to hit them harder later," Father cocked his head to one side.

"But they're just kids, Piccolo!"

Father clucked his tongue like he was speaking to a toddler. "Son, those two stopped being kids the day we died. Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, that's your opinion," Dad said almost snappishly, his voice hardening in a way that Kioku didn't remember ever hearing before. "I think you're making some bad choices. Your idea about sending them back was a good one, but I don't think Enma-Dao will go for it. I know you meant well, but I think you should have waited until the kids couldn't hear you. I don't want them to hope falsely."

"Even false hope is no better than no hope at all," Father replied, giving Dad a look that was both scolding and slightly amused. "You've told me that enough times."

"But if Enma-Dao doesn't agree -"

"Then there's nothing we can do," Father said firmly, and though he didn't know why, Kioku got the sudden feeling that his parent was speaking to him as well. "But the boys deserve to know of every chance they might have. They can handle it - they've already been forced to grow up twice as quickly as most people here. And I'm sure they're not hoping as much as you think they are. They're old enough now that they understand nothing is for certain. They're aware Enma-Dao might not agree."

Father looked down at Kioku purposefully then, silently chiding him for eavesdropping but also letting him know he didn't really care, and the corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. "Hey, kid, come here," he called, flying away from Dad and Vegeta.

Battling the horde of butterflies that mysteriously appeared in his stomach while simultaneously cursing himself for being such a baby, Kioku followed his parent, a sense of awe pervading him. His father had sacrificed his whole being to save Gohan - and not just once, twice! The second time, Piccolo had given birth to Kioku so that Gohan would always have a companion.

Kioku hadn't lived up to that wish . . . as an infant, he had caused Gohan pain, had increased his brother's guilt for the deaths of the Z-senshi by causing his absence from the battle . . . later, he had abandoned him by running away, and eventually, had gotten himself killed, leaving Gohan alone. The child's lip trembled, but he clamped down with his fangs.

Kioku had failed . . . he had failed Gohan, he had failed Father, he had failed his entire planet . . .

"Stop snivelling. You haven't failed anyone," Father grunted, coming to a halt at last. "You're just a child, nobody expects you to be perfect."

"What?" Kioku jumped in shock, not having realized his parent's mind would be attuned to his, then feeling stupid almost immediately. ". . . oh. Uh, thank you. I suppose."

Father folded his arms and stared down at him, his gaze running over Kioku with such a penetrating stare that the boy felt like sinking into the grass and disappearing. "I didn't ask you over here to socialize or reminisce," he began sternly. "You have most of my memories, so there is no need for that, and I don't indulge in that nonsense anyway. No, there is something you need to know."

Kioku nodded solemnly, oddly reassured by Father's brusqueness. It was something he could take at face value, which was all too rare lately. "What is that?"

"You are the only remaining Namekusejin on Earth, if you are allowed to return," Father frowned, "And at the moment, you are the most effective warrior. Trunks may have more raw power, but you have a better head on your shoulders. This gives you a responsibility."

"Responsibility?"

"Yes. You cannot continue fighting only for your mother. The Earth has been without a Guardian for too long, and as my son, the duty falls to you. When you were a child, you were permitted to pass it up - but you are a child no longer."

As Father spoke, Kioku shivered - a cold chill ran down his spine, feeling like someone had dumped a glass of ice cubes down the back of his shirt. 'A child no longer'? What did Father mean by that? Trunks was a year older than he was, and he was definitely a kid! Why was Kioku supposed to be grown up all of the sudden?

"Power breeds responsibility," Father intoned, "And you have more power than anyone left. Gohan, at your age, was weaker than you - yet, he was forced to become a man by the age of five. He has not had a childhood - he has witnessed death and betrayal by the time he was four.

"Yet, his premature rise to adulthood was tempered partly by circumstance, and partly by choice. While you have no other option but to accept."

Kioku's brows knit together in confusion and fear. What Father was telling him was frightening, because it was uncharted territory. An adult? He could barely even handle being a kid - those duties were difficult enough to tackle! "Why do I have to be an adult, Father? I don't think I could take on the responsibility adequately!"

The expression that darkened Father's face was one that Kioku couldn't distinguish. It was an odd combination of pride, anxiety, and a sort of dreaded foreboding. The older Namekusejin's thoughtful scowl pulled deeper, but his eyes didn't look like pieces of flint anymore - they seemed to soften somehow.

"The transformation has already begun. Have you noticed your vocabulary has increased since your death? Namekusejin are an adaptable species, and your mind is already preparing for your new position."

Kioku scratched his head behind his antennae, still not understanding. His father's mind was closed off to him, his thoughts hidden where Kioku couldn't read them. "Father . . . are you saying my mind is growing up before I do?"

Father nodded, his frown lightening. "Somewhat. But no matter how much your body adapts, you cannot become a Guardian on your own. Having Kami's and my memories will help, but it wouldn't be enough. To defeat the jinzouningen, and to protect your planet from further threats, you need our entire entities."

Comprehension began crawling through Kioku's brain like a beetle on the grass, nipping him every so often, but not with enough force to make a connection. Kioku blinked a few times, desperately attempting to understand why his father was looking at him with such grave solemnity. It was like Father knew he had to do something, but wished he didn't have to.

"I don't . . . understand."

Father's mouth tightened, and he looked away, closing his eyes. His lips twitched, moving silently, and Kioku guessed he and Kami were arguing again. Eventually, Father nodded sharply, and turned back to him. His eyes seemed haunted, premonitory.

"The two of us . . . must fuse."

From the low, growly tone of Father's voice, Kioku guessed he was supposed to be awed and impressed - but unfortunately for Father's dramatic buildup, Kioku had no idea what fusion was. He didn't feel particularly inclined to dig through his memory to find it, either. "Um," he laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head like his father always did. "What does that mean?"

A few heartbeats passed as Father's eyes widened, then the great warrior's legs buckled and he collapsed to his knees in shock and disbelief.

******

"Where'd Kiku go, anyway?" Trunks piped up curiously, flopping back in the high grass with his arms outstretched, chest heaving. It had been a long time since he had play-wrestled with anyone, and while his father didn't join in, knowing he was there was good enough.

"Good question," Kuririn glanced over at Goku, who had entered the confusion a few minutes ago. The Saiyajin propped himself on one elbow, looking at Trunks.

"He and Piccolo went off to talk a little while ago," Goku explained, the lines on his face tightening around his mouth and eyes. "I'm not sure what they're talking about, but knowing Piccolo, it'll be something important. He's not one for idle conversation."

"Hmm," Trunks mused thoughtfully. He didn't know what the word "musing" meant, but he'd heard it used before and thought it sounded impressive. It sounded like the kind of thing that grownups would do, and Trunks had started "musing" on a regular basis. He figured it was a more adult version of thinking.

"D you think Piccolo-san was right, Goku-san?" Trunks asked, lacing his fingers behind his head, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "D'you think we could go back home, to Mom, and ChiChi-san, and Gohan-san?"

Nobody answered, and the pause made the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Trunks frowned, trying to ignore the sudden, irrational fear that sprang up in his stomach, twisting his intestines into a knot. He hoped he would still be able to eat. "Can't we go back? Was Piccolo-san wrong?"

Yamucha reached over Kuririn to tousle Trunks' hair, and the boy winced. He always hated that gesture - it was so ostentatiously patronizing that it annoyed him. After all he tried to do, how grown up he strove to be, one "friendly" action was all it took to reduce Trunks to a little kid again.

"Piccolo gets some weird ideas sometimes," Yamucha shrugged a little, a sheepish and sympathetic grin on his face that sparked something long-dead in Trunks' memory. "Honestly, kiddo', I don't think Enma-Dao will let you go. I think you'll get stuck with us."

At least he gave me an honest answer, Trunks thought. He'd been dreading the typical watered-down-for-kids answer that adults usually gave.

Goku glowered at Yamucha, but stopped when Trunks lifted an eyebrow. The older man blew out his breath in a long sigh, his forehead wrinkling as he battled something inside his mind. Nobody knows anything for sure, Trunks. Don't write off any chances just yet."

"Don't baby me," Trunks muttered, sitting up abruptly and crossing his arms. "I'm not that little, Goku-san, I can handle stuff. You don't have to worry about upsetting me."

"I'm not babying you," Goku-san argued, though Trunks stony glare never faltered. "Just because you've fought and died doesn't mean you're an adult."

"Oh, poo on that!" Trunks expostulated, rather rudely, he knew, but too exasperated to care.

Tenshinhan let out a dry chuckle, peering at Trunks through his three eyes (which Trunks thought was awesome - how did someone get one of those?). "I've never heard an adult use the expression 'poo on that', little one," he admonished him laughingly. "I'll have to agree with Goku on that one."

Trunks snorted indignantly, with the feeling that the entire galaxy was against him - though why this was happening, Trunks couldn't imagine. "Well maybe, but I still wanna' be told stuff. I'm old enough to know if I'm gonna' stay dead forever or not."

"Don't be too eager to grow up, boy," Vegeta spoke up, addressing Trunks directly for the first time since the playful wrestling match began. "For once you lose your childhood, you'll discover it's the one thing you wish you never gave up."

"Who's stupid enough to think that?" Trunks scoffed, not noticing the knowing looks that passed between the adults. "Being a kid sucks! I can't wait until I'm a grownup, and people quit hiding stuff from me."

Vegeta smirked, but Trunks pointedly ignored him.

******

"No! I'm just a kid!" Kioku backed rapidly away from Father, shaking his head vehemently as if that would prove his point further home. "If I fuse with you, I'll be grown up no matter how old I am. I'm not ready for that kind of responsibility!"

Father said nothing. The look on his face was best described as empty; it held no sympathy, but no anger or exasperation, either. He had explained fusion to Kioku after a few seconds of staring, open-mouthed, at him for his lack of knowledge on the subject. For Kioku, the prospect of sharing another person's complete personality inside him (four other people, actually) was frightening. What was left of Kioku's wits had scattered to the far end of the galaxy.

While Kioku continued to splutter and protest, all the while attempting to quell the pit of fear churning in the bottom of his stomach, Father still did not speak. He merely stood and looked off into the distance, as though ignoring Kioku's fits completely, waiting patiently for him to finish. At last, chest heaving and tears of frustration streaming down his face, Kioku was too exhausted to object anymore.

"Well . . ." he whispered finally, his breath shuddering as he struggled for composure. "I suppose there's no way out of it. But -" Kioku looked at Father imploringly, chewing his lip to keep it from trembling, and he tugged on his parent's pant leg no matter how childish the action. "If I have to stay dead, can we not fuse?"

Father nodded once, his gaze still focussed on something Kioku couldn't see. "That will be fine."

Kioku fell silent, mulling over his choices in his mind, and thought wasn't a pleasant one. "Not the best of options, are they?" he mused aloud. "On one hand, I can stay dead forever, but remain a kid. On the other, I can return to life, but sacrifice my childhood at the same time."

"I'm sorry."

The words, coming in a low growl from Father's mouth, startled Kioku so much that his jaw dropped several inches. "Wh-what?" he stammered. He had no memories of his parent apologizing to anyone. "Did you just . . ."

Father swung around and locked stares with him, brow ridges coming down to narrow his eyes. Kioku shrank back, slapping himself inwardly. "Never mind," the boy said quickly, "I heard you."

"Good."

A pause followed, lengthy and, to Kioku, uncomfortable. He was used to chattering with Trunks, whether it be while they sparred, stretched, ate (or, in Kioku's case, drank), or when they couldn't sleep at night . . . he didn't like silence. He'd had too much of that before he left home - he and Trunks had talked to each other, of course, but their mothers rarely conversed. Their household had been a silent one, for the most part, and even five years since his departure, Kioku still didn't like it.

Silence was synonymous with tears - and death.

Father shook himself then, and Kioku winced, not intending his thoughts to be so loud. "Sorry," he apologized, biting his lip, but Father waved the concession off.

"That's all right. We might as well go back to Son and the others before the grinning idiot comes after us."

Kioku had to laugh at the expression used to describe his adoptive father - insulting though it was, it was still incredibly accurate.

******

For the first time in years, Kioku forgot about anything and everything, able to relax and enjoy the moment. His death, his rage, abandoning his family . . . all of it was temporarily tossed aside as he indulged himself in a wave of pure happiness. It was a strange emotion to him, but welcome nonetheless.

He lay with Dad in the waving grass, snuggled next to him like he was an infant again, his head lying on his father's rock-hard chest. Dad's arm was around him, solid and powerful, yet his touch was gentle as he massaged Kioku's head lightly. Father sat in lotus position nearby, close enough that Kioku's outstretched hand could rest on his arm. Kioku didn't remember being this peaceful, this insanely happy in all his existence.

Not far off, Trunks slept soundly next to Vegeta, who had deigned to sit on the ground, and allowed his son to lean his head against his side. Every so often, most likely when he thought no one was watching, Vegeta would lift a hand and touch Trunks' hair lightly, almost wonderingly, as he stared at his son's peaceful face. It was like he couldn't believe the boy lying next to him was his.

Kioku smiled softly.

Out of nowhere, Father straightened, uncrossing his arms and letting his arms drop to his sides. "It's time," he intoned solemnly.

Vegeta nudged Trunks, and Kioku and Dad sat up. "Well, this is it," Dad muttered quietly, his voice uncharacteristically solemn, and he squeezed Kioku's shoulders.

"Yeah," the Namekusejin murmured in reply. He caught Trunks' blue-eyed gaze, and reached over to clasp his friend's hand in his. "Whatever happens is gonna' happen, so don't get sad, okay?"

Trunks nodded firmly, and he gripped Kioku's hand. "Okay. Let's go."

******

Well? Whaddaya' think? Let me know, please - this chapter was very difficult, though I'm not sure why. Heck knows, with me!