Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ, the universe, or the characters featured in this fic. They are the property of Akira Toriyama and a whole bunch of big corporations.

The Burden of Hope

CHAPTER EIGHT: Bulma's Sleepless Nights; Chichi's Unexpected Guests

"Blast it, where did that thing go? I know I saw it around here somewhere," Bulma grumbled, sifting through the tall stacks of books and various other forms of scientific literature that stood precariously on the desk in front of her. Numerous volumes dropped to the floor with undignified thuds; magazines slipped from their perches to slap to a halt upon what had already fallen. Bulma ignored all of this, intent on her search. Her hands stopped suddenly. "Aha! Here we go."

She pulled a slim book away from the piles, and simply looked at it for a moment before reseating herself in her chair and opening the cover. Taking a swig of coffee from the mug that lay beside her laptop, she cursed her weariness. This was no time to sleep, only early evening; she had important work to do. The most important work that she would ever do in her life. She really didn't know how long she had been at it; a lack of sleep blurred time.

Perhaps to say that she had a lack of sleep was an understatement; Bulma couldn't remember the last time she had seen her bed, or even rested her head, pillowed upon her hands, on the smooth surface of the desk. Still, despite the thick fog that sluggishly rolled through it, some part of her mind had kept the hours and days more accurately than any clock. Almost nine days. At the thought, her blue eyes watered; she tightened her lips, but made no attempt to stop the tears. She may as well let them keep coming until there were no more of them left.

The pain of losing Trunks still stabbed at her heart, less sharply, but no less deeply. It was the worst thing that could happen to a mother, to lose her child, no matter the child's age. A mother shouldn't outlive her son. In these nine days, she had ruthlessly set herself upon the task that would be a tribute to Trunks---to all slain victims of the androids, really, but especially to him: the time machine. And no matter how many years it took her, even if it were all the years of her life, she would complete it; once Bulma fastened her mind on something, she never released it. Her determination had always been one of her best qualities.

Her lids grew heavy again, and she blinked. Irritated, she shook her head and took another sip of coffee, though these actions did nothing to increase her alertness. She wiped a hand across her face. Maybe it would be better if she took a break and went to sleep; there were few benefits to having difficulty concentrating, especially when it came to devising a way to twist the very fabric of time. Having a clear head could only work to her advantage.

"No," Bulma said to herself, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not yet. I've got to finish with this book, first. Then I'll get some rest. I can go on for a little while longer."

Resolved on this course of action, she set to work. It helped that the subject matter of the book was as interesting as it was helpful: a theory on the creation of wormholes. Some of Bulma's fatigue seeped from her body as, with deft fingers, she typed pertinent information into her laptop.

The light in the Capsule Corporation library gradually began to slip away, pulled back by the setting sun, making the light from the laptop's screen painful on Bulma's already-strained eyes. She cursed inwardly, not at all pleased at the prospect of working in the dark again. With the electricity still down---she supposed that she ought to be helping her father fix it, but her own project was consuming every drop of her energy---there was no way to combat the darkness. How ironic it was that she was in the Capsule Corporation, the most powerful and advanced technological empire that had ever existed, and did not have access to such a stupidly simple device as a common flashlight. It annoyed Bulma to no end.

"Oh, that's just it," she growled softly, typing in the command to save her work. "I don't have any interest in going blind today."

Standing, she tucked the laptop under her arm and strode out of the library, stumbling a bit as she did so. Kami, she needed sleep. Her stomach rumbled a little, reminding her of another bodily need that she'd been neglecting lately. Perhaps she should eat, too---goodness knew her mother was terribly concerned about the number of meals she'd missed. Hunger certainly couldn't have been helping her concentration level.

Bulma shook her head; no, sleep was what she needed most. Of course, that didn't make the trek to her room any easier. Curse the elevators for being non operational; she now had to climb three flights of stairs. Weren't her legs weary enough?

Hundreds of muttered cursed later, she was able to set her laptop upon her desk and flop thankfully onto her bed. Sighing loudly, she let herself go limp, feeling as though her body were melding with the soft mattress. Her eyes glanced at the mirror, and she frowned.

Dark, heavy bags puffed out below Bulma's eyes---eyes that were slowly becoming bloodshot. Her pale hair lay in a mass of fierce tangles. Her cheeks were a bit sunken, gradually becoming gaunt, the result of too many missed meals; skin that had previously displayed a healthy glow was now sallowing.

She looked terrible. Normally, this would have bothered her more than it did now; she'd always prided herself on her looks, always been a beauty, and had always painstakingly cultivated her appearance. Such a dishevelled image was not something that she would have wanted to present even to herself, let alone the rest of the world. But she had an excuse; she was a grieving mother for goodness' sake.

Bulma shifted onto her side, half-curling into a foetal position. Outside the window, darkness had claimed most of the sky, only leaving a fading band of lavender on the horizon.

Lavender. Like Trunks' hair.

Angrily, she rolled onto her other side, eyes squeezed shut. Blast it, she was crying again. Salty tears soaked her pillow. Just as before, she didn't bother to try and stop them; there was no point, however much it rankled. Besides, she needed to get her emotions out. If she didn't, they would only get in her way later, ruin her focus.

She would not allow that to happen. She needed everything she had. She would complete the tribute to her son.

No matter what.

Chichi had never gotten used to the feeling of an empty house.

Not that the house was actually empty, of course; she still had her father here. The soft-hearted giant of a man had scarcely left her side during the past few years. Chichi was grateful for that… but his company was not the company she craved; she dearly missed her husband and her son, and, for the millionth time, wished that she could have them back.

Sighing softly, she lifted the lid of a cooking pot and stirred its steaming contents with a wooden spoon. She repeated the process with the next pot, and the next one, and the next one, and the next one…

Startled, she paused. Her kitchen looked like that of a large restaurant preparing a banquet for over one hundred overeaters; various pots bubbled on the stove, numerous cutting boards overflowing with chopped vegetables dominated the countertop, succulent meats roasted to perfection in the oven… She'd made too much again. Somehow, even after all this time, it was still so easy to forget…

"Chichi-chan, are you all right?"

Hurriedly, Chichi swiped a hand across her eyes before turning to face her father, who was sitting at the table and staring at her concernedly. "I'm fine, Papa," she said as brightly as she could. "There's nothing wrong with me. You must be imagining things."

Ox-King frowned as though he didn't believe her. "It's okay if you still miss Goku and Gohan, honey."

She whipped her attention back to the stove, flicking back a few strands of long black hair that had escaped from the severe bun into which she'd styled them. "I told you, Papa; I'm all right."

Thankfully, her father seemed to be willing to leave things at that. Chichi didn't need him to worry over her; she was a grown woman, after all, and could handle herself just fine. She'd always been treated as though she were more fragile than the thinnest sheet of glass. At that thought, she suppressed a scoff; had that been true, she'd have been shattered beyond repair years ago.

Anyone who'd endured what Chichi had would have to be strong. On more than one occasion, her husband had been gone for weeks or even months at a time---he always just had to go off to save the world, didn't he?---leaving her alone to raise their son; being a lone mother was by no means easy work. What had been worse had been that for the majority of these occasions, her son had been gone as well. If being a solitary mother had been difficult, being a solitary and childless mother had been much more so.

Of course, whenever Gohan had been home, Chichi had made sure that he stayed there. And what better way to do that than to pile upon him several months' worth of schoolwork? Besides, he'd been a smart boy, and very curious; Chichi liked to think that he hadn't completely resented the studying, despite his high-voiced protests and desperate pleas for more free time to go and play. Sometimes, she'd almost relented---he used to give her the most adorably pitiful puppy-faces---but she'd been adamant. Her child would stay exactly where he belonged: at home with his mother.

"Hon, I can tell you're upset," her father began again. "Maybe you'd feel better if…"

Again, she whipped around. "I am not upset!" she screamed, startling her father so much that he tumbled out of his chair. "Where did you get the idea that I'm upset? I'm perfectly calm!" She flung the wooden spoon across the kitchen, sending it clattering into the wall; yanking off her apron, she stormed out of the room.

Chichi all but collapsed onto the couch, and her fingers, still strong from the long-ago days when she'd been a fighter, nearly punched holes into the throw pillow that they gripped. Desperately, she wanted to cry, but no tears would come. She hadn't wept since… when? Then it came to her: since a few months after she had lost Gohan, when she'd at last stopped crying herself to sleep over the fact that almost her entire family was dead.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. She wasn't supposed to be widowed and bereft of her child before she'd reached the age of thirty. She was supposed to be happily married, with she and her husband raising their son---Gohan would have been about thirteen now, she thought sadly---and living their days together blissfully. But things were not the way that they were supposed to be. They rarely had been, actually, even before the arrival of the androids.

The first few years had been normal enough, after Chichi had tracked Goku down at the twenty-third Tenkaichi Boudokai and reminded him of the promise he had made when they'd both been children. They'd made their home---where she remained to this day---in the woods near Mount Paozu; it was rather far from any city, but the beauty of the area more than made up for the isolation. While Goku hadn't exactly been the perfect husband---and had actually thought that marriage was some type of food, before Kurilin had explained things to him---he'd tried, in his own way. Chichi had always believed that he'd loved her, though it was sometimes difficult to see; for all of his outgoing personality, Goku had never been terribly expressive that way.

Only a few months into their marriage, she had become pregnant with Gohan. It still brought a smile to Chichi's face that she'd had to explain the mechanics of pregnancy to her husband. Though she'd tried to be matter-of-fact, she'd blushed the whole time, and had needed to explain a few things more than once before Goku had finally declared that he understood. Chichi had ended up giving birth in their bed, Goku having been off fishing or something when she'd gone into labour---though he'd gotten back in time to witness the birth---so she'd been unable to get to the hospital. She seriously doubted, though, that anyone could have convinced him to take her if he had been there---the man who had saved the world from the Red Ribbon Army, and Piccolo Daimao had had the most unfathomable terror of needles.

For four years, things had been the way that they were supposed to be; her husband had been home, and she'd had a wonderful, intelligent son whose academic gifts she'd nurtured to their fullest extent. Life was just like Chichi had always imagined it as a little girl.

Then everything changed.

At the time, Chichi had decided to blame the whole thing on Goku; after all, he had convinced her to let him take Gohan to Muten Roshi's island to introduce him to all of his old friends. And what had happened there? Her precious baby boy had been kidnapped by an alien claiming to be her husband's brother, and Goku had had to sacrifice his life to rescue him. Then, without even having the courtesy to tell her anything about it, that demon creature, Piccolo, had taken Gohan with him to do who-knew-what. All of that could have been avoided if Goku and Gohan had just stayed home that day. So she'd preferred to think, anyway; however, blaming others eventually gave way to simply wanting her family back.

Chichi had thought that she'd gotten her wish after the battle against the Saiyajins was over; she'd been with Goku and Gohan again---they may have been badly injured, but they'd at least been around. Little had she realized that this was not to last long before something else interfered: Nameksei.

Now, she'd been as saddened as anyone over the other fighters' deaths, and certainly wasn't opposed to bringing them back to life, but… But Gohan had insisted on going. And worst of all, had insisted on going for Piccolo's sake. No matter how many times she'd pleaded with her little boy to stay home because it was too dangerous, and she'd worry over him constantly, he simply hadn't been willing to listen. Chichi hadn't known how to handle this. She was his mother. How could he push her aside for the sake of reviving a creature who had, countless times, tried to conquer the world and hadn't cared who he'd have to harm or kill to do it? It had confused her, hurt her; she'd felt as though Gohan---who'd only been five years old, then---were slipping away from her, never to return.

The next few weeks had probably been the hardest ones of her life up to that point. Her son was off in space, probably doing any number of dangerous things that could possibly be imagined, and her husband insisted upon sneaking out of the hospital before he was even close to being fully recovered. Why couldn't he have just waited? He'd only been making things worse. Chichi knew that all of the others had thought she was being too overprotective, but what was wrong with wanting to make sure that her family was all right? They were just too stubborn to realize that she'd been doing what was best.

Of course, Goku had eventually succeeded in getting out of the hospital---Muten Roshi had told her that that overweight slob Yajirobe had given him a senzu bean---and gone off to Nameksei without so much as saying goodbye to her. She'd been alone again. Was she ever to have an intact family?

As it turned out, yes, she was. Gohan had been back first---a year or so before his father---and she'd lavished him with all the attention that he'd surely lacked while being stuck on Nameksei. Once Goku had arrived back on Earth, and defeated that Frieza creature, life had proceeded to be normal again---or as normal as it could get, anyway. But something else had been there, lying in wait, poised to take it all away from her when she'd least expected it.

Chichi almost did cry this time; her fingers tightened on the throw pillow, at last managing to punch through the fabric and sink into the soft stuffing inside. The symptoms had been subtle at first: a little less energy for physical activity, a slight loss of appetite… Of course, these things had been difficult to notice in Goku---especially the appetite factor---since he'd had far more than the average man in these respects. Small signs such as these had gone completely unnoticed. It hadn't been until one day when he'd scarcely been able to climb out of bed that Chichi had known that there was anything wrong at all.

Naturally, she'd been incredibly worried; nothing like this had ever happened to Goku before. She'd done her best to take care of him, but nothing had seemed to work. His condition had simply kept deteriorating. He would clutch at his heart, and have horrible dreams that he could not remember upon waking. And gradually, his spells of consciousness had become less and less frequent, almost to the point of non-existence. Knowing what was coming, Chichi had informed the others about his condition, but she hadn't told Gohan. How could she break that sweet little boy's heart by telling him that his father was dying?

She'd sat by his side the entire last day of his life, unwilling to be absent when he died. Near sunset, his face and muscles had relaxed; a few seconds later she'd heard a soft voice whisper, "…Tousan…" Unnerved, Chichi had glanced up just in time to see Gohan bolt from the doorway and into the hall. She'd let him go---there had been no way for her to catch up to him if he didn't want her to---and simply remained on her knees, sobbing for a long time. Goku was gone. All of the other times, Chichi had known that he would be back, no matter how long it took, but this time was different. This time there was no coming back.

The next few months were filled with loneliness. Chichi and her family had become more distant, not speaking to each other as much as they used to. She'd pushed Gohan further and further into his studies, trying to give him something to take his mind off his father's death, but she doubted that it had worked at all. Almost every time she'd seen him, he'd either looked blank, or as though he'd been about to cry. And for all that she'd managed to hide the outward signs of it for his sake, she hadn't felt any better than he had.

After the sixth month, Chichi had begun to feel better, like she might have been able to begin moving on… but yet again, she was to be thwarted. One morning, she'd heard a harsh clatter in Gohan's room and had rushed in to investigate, only to find his desk chair lying on the floor and his window open, the curtains flapping in the breeze. She'd rushed to the window and looked up to see her little boy flying off, surrounded by blue flame. She'd called his name, but if he'd heard her he'd given no sign of it. That was the last she'd ever seen of him…

A soft rapping sound caused Chichi to sit up, blinking in confusion. Where had that come from? Could she just be imagining it?

It came again; no, she hadn't imagined it. Turning her head, she stared at the front door. Someone was there, and whoever it was, by the softness of the knocking, didn't seem sure that he wanted her to know that. Chichi moved toward the door, opened it… and froze, her mouth hanging open in disbelief.

Before her stood a lean, dark-haired boy who could have scarcely been in his teens, and a much smaller boy of whom she barely took notice. The dark-haired boy had his hands folded behind his back, and regarded her uncertainly with his black eyes.

"Ohayo, Kaasan," he said shyly. His eyes darted around self-consciously before coming to rest on her again. "Uh… so… um… is there room at the table for two more?"

Chichi fainted.