Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Pavisse ❯ Yes It's True That I Believe ( Prologue )

It’s late; one A.M. already. She wouldn’t go to sleep, Panny wouldn’t. She’s so afraid. She’s always been afraid. Even of just closing her eyes. She’s afraid I’ll leave and never come back. Even as she sleeps in my lap, her head on my chest, her breathing is choppy and short. Her skin is crawling; chill bumps popping up all over. I rub her arms and her leg, trying to make them go away. I look at her right leg. It’s prosthetic.

That’s where all of this began. Her behavior, I mean. Her persona.

She was so young when it happened. Well, she’s young now. Only six. But then, she was three. So little, so tiny, so happy. Even with the androids looming around the corner. Even with her mother splattered on the street. Even with my old school friend- her mother’s husband- threatening every thread she has left to my world. My dark, bloody, greedy world. She was always just so happy.

Then the accident happened. Or, attack, rather. We were at the park. She was on the Ferris wheel with one of her little friends- Addy, I think the girl’s name was. I was supposed to be watching them. I was supposed to be on that ride with them. But Trunks, he, “I can handle it. I’ll ride with them. Don’t worry, Big Brother, I’ve got it. You relax.”

I don’t blame Trunks. I could never blame Trunks. Not for anything, even for my daughter’s leg being blown off at the thigh. I’m just grateful that he got her out of there whole (or, almost whole). Breathing. Alive. We got Pan to Bulma just in time and- God how I love that woman- she saved Pan’s life. I could have stopped the bleeding. I could have, really. Did you know? I have a diploma in medicine. But, all the blood, all the screaming and crying and- Pan. It was Pan. I was so scared- I couldn’t think. I loved Pan- I still do, so much- but I just couldn’t think of how to save her. As I carried her through the sky- Trunks screaming something at me (“Her leg! Gohan, her leg! Oh, Kami, her leg!”) I knew about her leg. I knew too well.

Bulma put that prosthetic on it. I don’t know where it came from and how she knew she’d need it, but I’m glad she did. It’s a miracle invention. The size and weight of a real human leg, pretty much made for my little girl. It would grow and shape up, just like her real one.

But, oh, after she woke up… she cried. She reached for me. She clung to me. “Daddy! Daddy, don’t leave. Please, never leave. Don’t leave me, Daddy.”

She wouldn’t leave my side for months- years. Even now, when she’s ‘all grown up,’ she won’t let me out of her sight. Out of her comfort zone. She’s happier now, as long as I’m around. At school she’s quiet, stoic. She cries and pushes other children away. She’s a smart girl. Very smart. Just like her grandmother.

Oh, God, Mom.

Back to Pan. She’s very intelligent. She’s only in Kindergarten and she already knows how to multiply and divide (the other kids are just now learning about the letter P and learning to write. The teacher told me so). Her grandmother would be so proud. I could see it now. “Oh, Panny! Golly, you’re a gift from the heavens!” is what Mom would say. If Mom were here. If I hadn’t…

But as soon as the bell rings and Pan comes out and sees me (I make sure to always be there right on time so Pan won’t think I’d forgotten her), she becomes a completely different child. She’ll run to me and hug me and tell me all about her day and, occasionally, the writing contests she’s won. I would scoop her up, hug her, tell her how proud I am of her and how much I love her, then we’d ride away on my motorcycle. Ride back to our little house in Orange Star City. A quaint little house near the other children in her class. They’ve noticed her personality change, too. As long as I’m outside, she’ll play. As long as I’m in earshot; in eyeshot.

I guess that’s just what a traumatized child acts like.

But before she got used to her new leg; after the accident… she became an infant all over again. She couldn’t walk. She cried for my attention rather than asking for it. She would throw her food everywhere. She threw temper tantrums. She wouldn’t try to get used to her new leg. If she wanted to go somewhere, she’d drag her body around with her arms like it was dead weight.

It was so hard to watch her. Some nights I would wake up to clink, clink, shhh, clink, clink. I came to recognize that as Pan trying to drag herself across the hardwood floor in my bedroom. I would feel her cling to the side of my bed and whimper. I could feel her eyes on whatever part of me she could see. If she would have just stood up, she would have been able to poke at me to wake up for whatever reason or to pull herself into the bed.

But she wouldn’t. She would refuse to stand on her new leg. Bulma had promised that, after ‘installing’ the prosthetic, in a week’s time she’d be used to it. That was four months ago. But Pan was still dragging herself around, crying, whimpering, throwing temper tantrums, demanding what she wanted.

After a while of trying to give her what she wanted (after all, she was my little girl. My hurt little girl. My crippled little girl.) I realized what I was doing. I was treating her like a cripple. It sounds terrible for me to call someone that. I was giving her what she wanted, allowing her to ignore her problem, and allowing her to act like a two year old. Trunks, “You’re reminding her of what is wrong with her. It’s hurting her.” Me, “But she’s only a three-year-old girl.” Trunks, “She’s your three-year-old girl.”

So instead of treating her like a patient, I began treating her like my child. I scolded her for things I didn’t want her doing and helped her with her new leg. It worked like a charm. She did as she was told. Her tantrums pretty much disappeared over time. Like Bulma had promised, she got used to walking on her new leg in about a week. She began speaking again, calling me Daddy, calling Trunks “Tutu” (which, while in public, he hates, but he secretly enjoys it) and calling Bulma “Ma.”

But, even as she got better, I couldn’t help but think Videl’s husband wouldn’t have let her get on that ride. He would have taken her to a more secluded, private, special theme park for her to enjoy.

That’s right. Videl’s husband, my old school buddy, he’s a billionaire. A trillionaire. I don’t know. He has a lot of money. He’s also a very important man in society today. He’s the King of the World. He’s “his majesty.” The world looks up to him in these dark ages. After the fall of order, the people elected him to become their King. After all, he was Hercule Satan’s star pupil (while the macho-head was will alive, anyway. Oh, no, oh, no…). He was Videl Satan’s husband.

Not that she wanted to be.

The King of the World also knew The Gold Fighter- a person who terrorized the world years ago. A person who was just as feared at the androids, even today, years after he’d disappeared. Searches were still out for him. Earth shuddered at the memories of him.

That person- The Gold Fighter- was me. The King of the World is Sharpner, my old school friend (whom, I am sure, hates me now). Pan’s mother was Videl (whom I loved dearly… Sharpner and I both did).

I guess this is all very confusing. Yes, it probably is. I should explain it all. Memory by memory. Chronological order. But where should I begin? The beginning, I suppose. Where it all began. How it all started. How this life I’ve thrust onto my friends and family came to be. Why things are the way they are here, while the world is at an end. Hopefully, Pan will read this letter when she is old enough. Trunks, Bulma, whoever loves my little girl after I am gone…

Please, show her this letter. Let her know how her daddy was and why he was that way. Let her understand. Let her know I love her unconditionally. Let her know how hard I worked for her, for our family, for myself.

I’m Pan’s pavisse, her shield, even after death. Let her know that.

Now, let us begin. From the beginning.