Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ The Burden of Hope ❯ Loss of A Child; An Idea's Conception ( Chapter 3 )

Disclaimer: We've been through this twice before, but here it is again: I own no part of DBZ, so don't sue.

The Burden of Hope

CHAPTER THREE: Loss of a Child; An Idea's Conception

Bulma reached up a grimy hand and wiped away the wet film that had formed in her eyes. No. She would not cry; she was stronger than that. Heaving a heavy-hearted sigh, she raised her bowed head and surveyed the destruction around her.

Curse them, she seethed silently. Curse them until their circuits catch fire and melt their smooth-skinned faces and slim bodies into putrid, sparking puddles.

Smoke curled upward in thick columns from ground and building alike and coalesced into an oppressive, low-hanging cloud. Former structures lay in a scattered array of formless piles. Pockmarking the ground like massive inverted anthills were innumerable craters. And like ants themselves who had lost their homes, the remaining people scurried about in chaotic disarray.

None of these things, however, was the cause of Bulma's nearly-shed tears. With the world being what it was, it would be foolish to weep over so trivial a matter as the decimation of a city. But perhaps her reason was just as foolish; it wasn't as though what was happening to her were uncommon. She didn't care, though; she was allowed to feel any way she very well pleased and Kami help anyone who dared attempt to deny her that right.

Carefully schooling her features into an expression of hardened determination, she stiffly walked forward. She winced as pain radiated through her kneecaps with each step; they were probably bruised, she mused irascibly, remembering being pushed to the ground by some mannerless oaf. And that had been when…

Bulma stopped abruptly, tears once more stinging her blue eyes and rimming them in ugly red; she shook her head to dispel the unwanted sensation, the continued walking.

That had been when, her mind continued, she'd lost sight of Trunks. When she'd looked up again---after the androids had flown off, of course---she'd found only a few other people around. And her little boy had not been among them.

"If the bad robots come and you can't see Mama, you run away and hide…" Her frequent instructions to her son came back to her. Obviously, he had heeded her words---and put himself in more danger because of it. Blast it, why did Trunks have to be so obedient? What kind of four-year-old always did what his mother told him?

So swathed in thought was Bulma that she was brought back to reality only by the feeling of her legs harshly bumping into something metallic. She squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth against the annoying sensation of pain. Looking down, she sighed in exasperation; how was it, that in a city-confined apocalypse where not even dirt had escaped destruction, the aircar remained intact?

Disgustedly, she wiped away the sticky remains of an orange from the top of the front seat. Various other fruits, long loaves of bread, and leaking jugs of milk lay across the seats, reminders of the shockwave of the first explosion. In normal times, it would be strange to thing that tragedy could strike during an outing to do some grocery shopping---but these were not normal times. Or perhaps they were, now; a few short years of living in fear of the androids made it difficult to remember that life had once been simple, that the world had once been beautiful…

Bulma opened the aircar's door and watched as a few pieces of fruit rolled onto the ground at her feet. Carefully, she climbed over them, sat down, and closed the door beside her. Unbidden, her eyes flicked toward the seat next to her. The seat that had been occupied by Trunks. A wave of fury swept through her, and she once again cursed the androids for taking away her little boy. She felt like throwing something, but gunned the engine instead. Nothing within reach was worth throwing; food, at best, made a sickening splat and provided none of the satisfaction of a metallic crash. Once she arrived home, she would have a wide variety of worthy projectiles at her disposal.

As she drove, ash-coated winds whipped her pale hair about; Bulma told herself that it was also responsible for the stinging sensation in her eyes. She kept her gaze focused ahead, determined not to look at either the adjacent seat or the scattering of dead bodies which lay strewn all over the ground; combining these sights conjured up bad memories.

Three years. Give or take a few weeks, that was how long it had been since the androids first attacked. The whole thing had been a surprise, to say the least; nothing had threatened Earth since Frieza had shown up a few years before. By the time the androids appeared, Goku---their prime target---was already dead, so they were free to torture the planet as they saw fit; they struck with unbelievable power.

It wasn't as though there had been no hope; Goku may have been gone, but Vegeta had attained the level of Super Saiyajin, and Bulma had been told that little Gohan had as well, upon his father's death. There should have been no problem. After all, what could possibly defeat the two most powerful beings alive?

Apparently, two beings that were not alive.

Bulma bit her lip, nearly drawing blood, as she remembered going to the city the day after the attack; the explosions had stopped in the early afternoon, and she'd expected Vegeta---who had been his usual arrogant self as he left---to return to the Capsule Corporation, make a few haughty comments about "pathetic, weakling creatures", and go back to training in the gravity chamber. His failure to do so had prompted great worry.

Visions assaulted her eyes with painful vividness: city streets empty of human life; scavenger birds crowding and feasting upon deceased flesh; bloody, empty-eyed corpses…none bloodier than Vegeta's.

Vegeta. Where on Earth had he gotten the nerve to go off and die, leaving her to raise Trunks all by herself? Granted, Bulma had usually seen little enough of him---he'd always spent so much time in that blasted gravity chamber, for all the good that did him in the end---but she knew that he would have been involved in their son's life. Even if it would have been only to train Trunks, there would have at least been common ground on which father and son could have built a relationship. Perhaps even grown to care about one another.

But no such things could happen; Vegeta was dead. Like Yamucha, whose flesh in some places had been burned down to the bone beneath. Like Kurilin, whose small body had seemed somehow smaller, and a moment later was discovered to be in two pieces. Like Piccolo, who she'd never liked much, but for whom she'd felt a great sadness as she'd seen the enormous hole punched through his broad chest.

Like Gohan.

Bulma swallowed a lump in her throat, feeling a profound sorrow; Gohan had only been a little boy, no more than ten years old. She knew that he had gone to the battle---Chichi's frantic phone call on the afternoon of the attack, asking if Bulma knew where her "baby" had gone confirmed this---but she had not found his body. His was the only one missing. The possible reason for that---Bulma knew enough about ki blasts to know that powerful ones could have a very nasty effect on molecular structure---was too grim to think about. She'd tried to comfort a grief-stricken Chichi by saying that maybe no news was good news, but now… Now too much time had passed. Suffice it to say that Gohan too was almost certainly a casualty.

And now those thrice-cursed monsters have robbed another mother of her son.

The massive dome of the Capsule Corporation facility slowly rose into view in front of Bulma, like the moon coming to its zenith before the sky turned black. Pulling up beside it, she was nonplussed at the sight of her mother rushing forward to meet her; she had hoped not to have to break the news about Trunks to her parents as soon as she got home. She'd wanted to work off her frustration first, to dull the knife of pain in her heart so that the telling would be easier. Fortune just was not her friend today.

"Bulma-chan!" her mother shouted, her high-pitched voice edged with relief. As Bulma slowly exited the aircar and stood, the older woman threw her arms around her neck, then pulled away slightly, hands now grasping her daughter's shoulders. "Your father and I were so worried; we were listening to the radio and heard about the attack. For a while, we were afraid that you and Trunks-chan wouldn't make it back!"

"Um…Okaasan…" Bulma tried, but her mother wasn't paying attention; she'd removed her hands from her daughter's shoulders and begun searching around the aircar, confused.

"Trunks-chan? Where are you?" she called. "Come on out and give Obaasan a big hug hello!"

"Okaasan…" Bulma began again, gently placing her hand on her mother's back to draw the older woman's attention. Swallowing, she tried to force out the words. "Trunks… he… you see…"

Her mother cocked her head, concernedly. "Bulma-chan, what's wrong? Where's Trunks?"

Though she tried to stop them, tears welled up in her bright blue eyes, making them seem even brighter. She whirled away from her mother and kicked the side of the aircar; it hurt her foot, but she ignored it. "Blasted androids!" Bulma sank to her knees, sobbing and no longer caring that she was supposed to be stronger than to do that. "I hate them," she whispered whenever she had the breath. "I hate them."

A hand fell on her shoulder. "Bulma-chan…"

"We were all right, at first," Bulma explained hoarsely, feeling the urge to talk about her ordeal. "We took cover behind some ruins, with a few dozen others. For what seemed like forever, I held Trunks tight and listened for the explosions. When they stopped, we all stood still, waiting for a sure sign that the androids had left. We didn't find one, but tried to make a careful break for it, anyway; I should have known better than to go---or to let any of us go. I don't know how I could have been such a baka."

Bulma paused for a long time. Her mother said nothing, for which she was grateful; any sympathetic words at this point would only cause her to burst into tears again. Sniffling, she wiped her eyes and nose with the backs of her hands, then continued, "The androids must have seen us, because they fired a blast that landed just a few feet from us. The blast set off a panic, and you know how people are when they're panicked---no manners at all. I got jostled around and lost my grip on Trunks' hand, then someone pushed me over. I didn't look up until a couple of minutes after the mob passed by, and looked around for Trunks…" Pausing again, briefly, she swallowed her tears. "…but he wasn't there. He'd kept on running. And the androids were off hunting everyone who had kept running…"

Unable to speak anymore, Bulma fell silent. She didn't need to say anything else; the way she'd trailed off revealed far more than words ever could, Her little boy, the only true joy that she'd had left, was gone.

Slowly, she looked up at her mother. The elder woman's face, which had always appeared so youthful, now showed her age; even her hair, in its perpetually perky sweep above her head, seemed to droop. Bulma pressed a brave expression onto her face and rose to her feet. "I'll be all right, Okaasan. We'll all be, one day."

With that, she turned and walked inside, feeling bad about herself for lying to her mother. They'd all be fine one day, indeed; the androids murdered at their leisure and there was nothing and no one that was capable of stopping them. Had they lived beyond the first attack, Vegeta and Gohan may have eventually trained to a high enough level to accomplish the task. Or had Goku been alive when those monsters attacked, he would have taken care of them for sure… But as it had been, Trunks had been the only one alive that had any power whatsoever… and now he was gone, too. Bulma wasn't sure if she would have let him train, though, even if someone had been around to teach him; she used to think that Chichi was too overprotective about Gohan going into fights, but ever since the androids, Bulma had been beginning to think that the younger woman may have been on to something.

Not that it mattered, now. Trunks had still died---just as an innocent victim instead of a noble warrior.

Bulma flicked a switch when she reached the parlour; much to her annoyance, no lights came on. She sighed. "Power's out. I should have guessed." Beyond caring, she stretched out on the couch and stared up at the high ceiling.

"If only there could have been some way of knowing the androids were coming," she whispered into the silence. "If there could have been some warning, well before the first time they came; then the others would have had a chance to stop them. I wish that I could just go back in time and tell them of the danger."

Wishing, however, wasn't going to make it so; not without Dragonballs, anyway. And those were just a little difficult to come by these days, what with Piccolo being dead, and all. No, wishing would not work.

But… Bulma blinked. Though the Dragonballs had always been useful, the seeking of supernatural powers was not her way; she was a woman of science. And who was to say that science couldn't solve this problem? Actually, the idea was so simple that she was amazed that she hadn't thought of it a long time ago, but perhaps she hadn't had enough motivation before today.

A time machine.

At the thought, Bulma's heart, which had been made heavy by the loss of Trunks, lightened just a bit. Something could be done to help the world. She could go back, give Goku and the others enough warning long enough in advance so that they could train and…

Goku. Blast it!

Bulma slammed her fist onto the table next to the couch, frustrated. A time machine wouldn't help things, either; Goku's aid in a battle against the androids would be essential, and he would still be dead by the time that they appeared. No means existed to avert his death, even now; the heart virus which had done what no warrior could---taken his life---was still without a cure.

Quickly, thoroughly, the black shroud of despair enveloped Bulma's soul. The shroud seemed to laugh at her, to mock her. How foolish you are! it said, echoing through her emptiness. You thought to save your friends! To save your precious little son! But they are dead. And they will always be dead, no matter what you try. Yes, how utterly foolish you are!

The whirring of gears caught her attention; turning her head slightly, Bulma saw a small service robot, scarcely taller than the table, holding up a tray filled with assorted cakes and a few cups from which spewed the appropriately bitter aroma of coffee, with its three-fingered metallic hands. She was not in the mood for such an intrusion; angrily, she smacked away the tray, covering its holder with brown liquid and multicoloured icing. "Just go away!"

The robot instantly complied, rushing out of the room like a frightened child and very nearly running over the figure that had just appeared in the doorway; the figure barely jumped out of its way in time, then looked up at Bulma.

"Now, now, hon," the figure said soothingly. "Scaring the robots won't help anything."

"I don't care!" Bulma snapped. Her father could be so annoying sometimes. She shifted onto her side, away from him; tears were welling up in her eyes again and she didn't want him to see her cry. Soft footsteps clicked across the floor, stopping near her; Bulma heard her father groan a bit, probably settling his old bones into a chair. For long moments, silence reigned.

"My dear, we're all upset over what's happened to Trunks, but…"

It was too much; Bulma turned and shot to her feet, glaring at her father with eyes so baleful they would have frightened even Vegeta. The man cringed and held the newspaper he'd had tucked under his arm protectively over his head as she screamed at him. "Upset? Is that all you can say? Your grandson was killed today, Otousan! Killed! Hunted down and slaughtered like some small, defenceless animal!" Being unable to see her father's face as she ranted only served to make her even angrier, and her voice rose still more. "Does that mean so little to you that you can speak so calmly? Am I the only one who cares? My son is dead! My four-year-old little boy is…"

Bulma stopped suddenly, blinking as she read the banner headline on the front page of her father's shield. Cautiously, the man lowered it a bit, peering up at her from under the thin rims of his glasses. His voice nervous, he tempted his daughter's ever-so-famous temper by asking, "What is it, hon?"

Not hearing him, Bulma snatched the newspaper from his hands, praying that her mind and the nearly-gone light had not played a cruel trick on her vision. Her fingers trembled in nervousness and slowly dawning hopefulness as she read the headline again; amidst the horror of the day, and of the past three years in general, a message of hope leapt forth from a string of large, bold capital letters:

DEADLY VIRUS FINALLY HAS A CURE!

Bulma's heart almost soared; there was a chance that her idea might work, now. It would take years of toil before she could be certain, but at least there was a chance… There was a way to let Trunks grow up, for the others to live, for the world to flourish…

"Bulma-chan?" She turned upon hearing her father's voice. The man's eyes were questioning, and his mouth, though it was barely visible under his bushy white moustache, was frowning with curiosity.

"Otousan. Do we have any information on time-space?" Bulma asked. "Articles? Books? Scientific journals?"

Blinking, he hesitated. "Well… I'm sure that there would be something of that nature in the library, but…"

"Wonderful." A great deal of research was going to be needed if she were to ever put the concept of the time machine into reality. Thus reassured, Bulma began to leave the parlour; her father's voice stopped her.

"Bulma-chan, why all these questions? What are you up to?"

Bulma smiled. "I have an idea, Otousan. An incredible one that I'm going to get started on first thing tomorrow morning."

"But we've got to work on getting the power up and running again," her father protested. "And we've got to restore communications; the androids attack severed all the channels…"

"You can worry about that," she interrupted. "I've got my own project and I won't be needing either of those things for a while yet."

Before anything else could be said, Bulma completed her exit of the parlour. A short distance down the hallway, she halted and leaned against the wall; she lifted her chin and her eyes toward Heaven, toward Trunks.

"Gomen nasai, Trunks-chan," she whispered as silent tears slid down her cheeks. "I wish that this had never happened to you. But it won't have to, now. Don't you worry, Trunks-chan; Mama's going to fix everything."