Trunks and Shiatar had paused in their assault on the dinner table; now they examined the little machine. For all intents and purposes, it looked like a small faberge egg, filigreed with copper rather than gold. Shiatar lifted the item dubiously, turning it in her fingers. "This is supposed to warn us? I'd almost rather take my chances." She blinked, realizing what she'd said, and then blushed, stammering apologetically to Bulma. "No offense, Bulma-san. It's just that . . ."
Trunks saw that she was in trouble. "It's just so small, Okaasan," he finished, taking the "egg" from Shiatar. "It seems . . . well, indecent to rely on something so . . . harmless-looking."
Bulma sighed, taking back her "egg." "Ingrates. Barbarians. The best solution isn't always to go beat something up. At least take the time to appreciate the technology." She grinned, as did they.
Shiatar nodded. "I hope it works. I never want to be surprised like that again." She eyed Bulma's bandaged head and wrist. "I suspect that you don't either."
"No, indeed!" Bulma exclaimed, smiling as she reached up to her forehead. "I was lucky to get off this easily."
"Yes, you were," Trunks said, his voice soft. Bulma looked into her son's eyes and saw what he was thinking.
"I'm fine, Trunks. You worry about everything."
"I almost lost you, Okaasan. Shouldn't I worry about that?"
"He should," Shiatar added, "because you don't worry about yourself. Why don't you go into the regen tank, Bulma-san? Your wrist is broken, and nearly your skull!"
Bulma waved a hand at her and winced as she waved the wrong one, then covered the wince quickly with a smile. "So he's got you doing it too, now, has he? Honestly, you warrior-types . . . when you're not fighting, you're worrying. I'm fine. And anyway, both of you needed the tanks more than I did."
"Yes," Shiatar agreed, wiping her mouth with the napkin---Bulma had been working on her---and standing. To both Bulma and Trunks' surprise, she awkwardly hugged Bulma, blushing as she stepped back. "But it's been a week since I got out of the tank, and Trunks was done before me; you could have gone in after us, and yet you'd rather feel the pain. I don't claim to understand it, but I do share Trunks-san's feeling in this. You should take care of yourself. He only has one mother."
With that, Shiatar left, and Bulma stared first after her, then at her son. Trunks shrugged. "She likes you," he said. "I think she wishes you were her mother, too."
Bulma smiled after the girl. "Not that I don't wish I had a daughter, but . . . " She smiled mischievously at Trunks. "Then you and she would be brother and sister. I don't think you'd like that."
Trunks almost choked on his noodles, and hastily swallowed some tea to clear his mouth. He was blushing furiously. "Well, I'm done," he said, too-loudly. "Dinner was great, as usual. Good night!" And he exited as quickly as his dignity would allow.
Bulma looked after him, smiling quietly to herself.
It was nearly midnight. Shiatar lay in her bed, wide awake; she had gone to bed an hour earlier, and still could not sleep. After tossing restlessly for a while, she finally got up, pulling the sheet with her to cover herself against the cool night air, and went over to open the window. The breeze that came in was more than cool; winter had finally arrived, and the wind was chilly enough to put frost on the glass, but she pulled the sheet closer about herself and ignored the cold. The open window reminded her of her days as a runaway, back home; she'd sometimes had to sleep out in the open, in tree-limbs or under stone lean-to's. She'd always liked such nights, in spite of the cold or the damp or the discomfort of her natural bed; a night's sleep on cold stone as a free woman was better by far than the warm bed of a slave. Ever since then, a night breeze blowing in the window was comforting to her. She needed the comfort.
Try as she might, she could not rid her mind of troubles. The DITMIX was finished, finally; she'd spent the day before tagging along with Bulma, pretending to be idly curious, but in fact she'd been watching carefully, and now she believed that she could operate the device by herself. Why she might need to do so, she didn't really know---except that a small voice inside her was urging her to go back, go back, go back. The voice was getting louder every night . . . and one night, it might get so loud that she'd have to listen to it regardless of whether she'd said goodbye to her friends or not.
Not that her feelings were clear about returning, any more. She wanted to go back; she was determined, now more than ever, to free her people from the Saiya-jin conquest. She knew, instinctively, that she was ready for whatever she'd have to face: Vejiita, and perhaps Kakaloto, and the whole damned Saiyan army if need be. Once those odds might have seemed insurmountable to her, but now she smiled. She was a Super Saiya-jin; the odds sounded about even.
But in spite of her readiness, she was still plagued by a niggling sense of doubt, of hesitation. This Earth had been the first place in her life that she'd found complete freedom, true friends, new strength, a sense of fulfilment. She'd even found herself here, in a way. But as much as she liked this wonderful Earth, she knew it was not her Earth, and she would never truly be content here; this place was too soft and too empty. No; hedonism was not the root of her discomfort about leaving; that was not it at all.
Shiatar sighed in discomfort. She'd never felt like this before. The thought of losing Trunks had so distracted her during the battle a week before that she'd almost thrown the contest; she'd never cared about anyone else before enough to make her so . . . vulnerable. The feeling frightened her. Even being leader of her resistance cell hadn't made her feel this way. She hadn't thought she could feel this way, especially after Radditz . . . but Radditz was gone, and she had healed herself of the damage he'd wrought. Trunks stirred anything but revulsion in her. Her closed eyelids flickered as images flowed against them: Trunks after his sword-practice, wearing his customary close-fitting black shirt, his tanned skin gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat . . . stepping out of his bathroom wearing nothing at all . . . in the corridor, facing Radditz and Nappa, his face hard with determination---and startlingly handsome. On both a physical and an emotional level, she found him fascinating, and she didn't know what to do about it.
Sighing again in frustration, she turned away from the window and looked around at her room. It was the most luxurious barracks---quarters, she reminded herself; not barracks---she'd ever had, elegantly furnished and vast, with an ornate, high ceiling that made it look even bigger than it was. And the vastness only contributed to the utter and complete loneliness of the place. She leaned back against the windowsill. She'd never been lonely in her life. Alone, yes, all the time, but never . . . never truly lonely, never craving the company of another soul. And right now, there was one soul in particular whose company she craved. Company . . . and perhaps a bit more . . .
Irritably, she took a deep breath and then let it out. As usual, she made her decision on impulse. She'd never get any sleep otherwise. And from the subtle cues and hints she'd picked up in the last few weeks from Bulma and her son, she suspected that he would not mind . . . She didn't bother to dress. This world's fixation on clothing and intimacy was silly anyway. She only pulled the sheet a little tighter around herself and left her room, padding silently down the hallways in her bare feet and seen only by the ever-present but unobtrusive service robots. If they made any note of her midnight journey, they kept it to themselves.
At his door, she hesitated, as nervousness and the full import of what she intended struck her. Her hand paused, hovering above the smooth metal of his door before knocking, and suddenly she felt very inadequate clad only in a sheet; perhaps there was something to this clothing thing. A flurry of doubts suddenly flickered through her mind: what if he didn't find her attractive? What if he was asleep and didn't want to get up? What if he didn't want her? What if he laughed at her? She shuddered, and almost took her hand away from the door, as the worst question of all occurred to her then: What if he did want her? What then?
Sighing in self-inflicted agony, she leaned her forehead against Trunks' door, and tried to decide what she really wanted.
It was a clear, beautiful night with the moon high in the sky, and Trunks swirled the cooling cup of tea in his hand introspectively, trying to decide what he wanted.
Shiatar, as always, was on his mind. He sighed, lifting his cup to take a sip and barely noticing that it was nearly cold. She'd be going back soon; he could sense her desire to return to her world growing every day. He'd hoped . . . but then, he'd known full well that Shiatar would never consider staying here while her world was still enslaved. Her sense of honor would not permit that; it was one of the reasons he found her attractive. She would triumph, or die trying . . . and he smiled, certain that she would triumph. Nothing, he suspected, could stop Ko Shiatar when she wanted something. Nothing at all.
Which did not make the knowledge that she would leave any easier. His mother was right, he was a worrier: he worried that Shiatar would go back alone, to face her world's version of Son Gokuu and his father. In his world, they had been the two most powerful fighters in the galaxy; was she ready to face them? He didn't know, but a new thought had occurred to him more and more often, lately: Shiatar might not be ready, but he was . . .
He took a sip of the tea again, and finally noticed how disgustingly cold it was; annoyed, he considered reheating it with a minor exertion of his power, but decided against it. Tea was only good fresh-brewed. Crossing the room to the sink, he rinsed the cup out, and only when he'd shut the water off did he hear what the water had drowned out: a hestitant, faint rapping at his door. Almost more like scratching, really---as if whoever was knocking wasn't sure if they really wanted to be heard.
Startled, he went to the door and, after adjusting his robe to make sure he was decent, opened it. And came face-to-back with Shiatar. The girl was half-turned away, as if she'd changed her mind about knocking, and to his surprise, when she turned back, he saw something akin to fear in her face . . . "Hi," she said, recovering quickly. "I couldn't sleep. Can I, uh, talk to you about something?"
Mutely, he nodded, and she stepped in past him. To his further surprise, he saw that she was clad only in a bedsheet, and immediately his gaze was drawn to the movement of her hips beneath the loose cloth . . . Irritated, he got a hold on himself. She probably would have though nothing of coming to visit him completely naked, and had no doubt only donned the sheet out of respect for his beliefs. But as she entered and he closed the door again, he was amazed to note her behavior; she seemed tense. Almost . . . nervous.
"Please, make yourself comfortable," he told her. "I was just about to make some more tea. Would you like some?"
She shook her head, looking around absently, as if the details of his quarters barely interested her. She'd seemed interested enough the day she'd come in and caught him naked. Puzzled by her strange behavior, he started to put on more water for his own tea, and then paused, watching his guest. This was no idle visit, he was certain.
She went over to his window, and looked out; he turned off the tiny light over his hot plate and went to stand behind her, wondering what was wrong with her. And then he suffered an instant of dismay; had she come to tell him that she would be leaving soon? He took a deep breath, and made his decision.
"I'm glad you came," he said to her, and saw her nearly start at his voice, half-turning her head. "I wanted to talk to you anyway, about when you go back to your world. I want to go with you."
This time she did start, and she turned completely to face him. Her face was a study in surprise, wonder, confusion, and something else he couldn't identify. "What?" she asked.
"I want to come with you." He took a step closer. "Hear me out before you say no. You're one woman, going back to face an army, and there's a Super Saiya-jin---two if Kakaloto's become one, too---at the head of that army. You're very powerful, Shiatar, but even you can't keep your guard up all the time. You need help. I know you'll never ask for it . . ." He chuckled. "I wouldn't, either, if I were in your position. But that doesn't matter. I want to go with you."
She seemed tense. "Trunks, I appreciate your offer, but . . . they're my enemies. This is my battle. Vejiita's your father, for goodness's sake, and you idolize your world's Kakaloto, I can tell. Would you help me kill them?"
"That Vejiita," he said vehemently, surprising himself, "is not my father. My father was no monster; he was ridiculously proud, but he had honor. And your Kakaloto is not, and will never be, Son Gokuu. I can keep my dimensions straight."
"But what about this one? The people here need your help still."
He sighed. "I hate to admit it, but I haven't been much of a help to them," he said. "For every village that I help, there's ten more that I can't. It would take me at least a year, working constantly, to even begin to get this world back on its feet. That won't do them any good now, with winter here." He shook his head. "I'm a better fighter than I am a builder. Let me use my real skills in a place where people need them more."
"And your mother? Would you leave her alone?"
He snorted. "Do you think she'd let me go altogether? She'll be just a DITMIX gate jump away. I can visit."
She turned, and he saw that she was frowning at him. "You've really thought about this."
"I have." He stepped closer to her, and chuckled softly. "Did you think I could let you go altogether, either?"
He hadn't intended for the words to come out like that. She flushed abruptly and lowered her eyes, and he inwardly cursed his own verbal clumsiness. Shiatar was no airbrained village girl, to be won with a few charming words; he meant to go carefully with her, take his time. She was too important to him to jeopardize their relationship with bad timing or overeagerness.
Suddenly Shiatar turned away again, and the sheet slipped down over one shoulder. He found himself staring at that shoulder, bare and smooth in the pale moonlight, and fought off a sudden urge to reach out and touch her. He mentally kicked himself again; he had no damned self-control.
"Come with me if you want," she said softly. "It doesn't matter."
He almost smiled. Translation: she wanted him to come. He hadn't spent all that time around his father without learning to hear what was not said . . . But something in her manner sobered him; abruptly he recalled why she said she'd come. "You said you wanted to talk," he said. "What's on your mind?"
She took a deep breath and lifted her head; his eyes were drawn again to the way her hair curled over her shoulder. He was glad that she'd stopped wearing that severe braid. He liked her hair in its normal wild state.
"I've been doing a lot of thinking," she said, "and I finally came to one conclusion. I . . . all my life, I've been in control of myself and the things around me." Her shoulders jerked back, proudly; Trunks watched in fascination. "Even when I was an arena slave, I told my master when I was ready for another fight; he listened to me because I was a winner. The only point in my life when that control was taken from me was . . . with Radditz." She lowered her head, as did Trunks; he wished that he could have somehow erased that moment from her memories. She went on. "And after him, I swore I'd always make my own decisions, follow my own path, from then on. No one would ever again have any power over me but me." She sighed.
"Radditz is dead, once and for all, and I think I've finally rid myself of the things he did to me. They're scars, now, but they're healed. I have myself . . . and you, to thank for that."
Trunks started in surprise. "Me? You killed him alone."
She shook her head. "I'm not talking about that. You . . . I've never been able to . . . trust anyone, since him. But . . . I trust you, Trunks. With my life. It's . . . a new thing, for me." He sensed the importance of it to her, and was deeply flattered.
Abruptly she raised her head. "I want to erase everything he did to me, even the scars," she said. "And I want . . ." she sighed. "I don't really know how to say it . . ."
Trunks stepped forward, trying to fathom what she was leading up to. "Shiatar-san," he said over her shoulder, "maybe you'd better just tell me straight."
She was still for a moment, and then she chuckled. "You're right. I've never been one to beat about the bush this much." She took a deep breath.
"Trunks, will you make love to me?"
Shiatar heard Trunks make a choking sound behind her, and she closed her eyes in humiliation. She'd asked him, and now he sounded like he was going to die from shock. All her fears had been justified---she scowled to herself in anger. She should have known better than to try this . . .
But after a moment he fell silent. She heard him taking deep breaths behind her---to calm himself? Or to keep from laughing? She held herself rigid, too proud to show her shame.
"Sh-Shiatar," he said then, startling her; he actually sounded unnerved rather than amused. "W-What . . ." He trailed off, then took another deep breath, then contined drolly. "This is a bit unexpected."
She heard the amusement in his voice, and sighed, angrily. "Never mind. I'll just go."
"No, don't go." To her surprise, he sounded anxious, and she paused. "I'm sorry, I've just been caught a bit off-guard. To be honest, I thought . . . well, I thought you saw me as a friend, but not much more."
He sounded sincere, and she relaxed a bit, her anger fading. "I did, mostly---or at least, I thought that was all it was. But lately . . . well, I keep thinking about you, and it doesn't make any sense. I've tried to stop---"
He let out a pained sound that was not quite a chuckle. "Please don't," he said wryly, and then sighed. "I can't lie . . . I think about you, too, Shiatar. A great deal."
She sensed, suddenly, what he was not saying, and it shocked her. He was speaking of more than mere physical attraction. Had he been interested in her like this all along? It sounded unbelievable, until she recalled a dozen clues she'd half-noticed over the last few weeks . . . He was very strong, to have hidden such feelings from her so well. Encouraged further, she started to turn . . . and then hesitancy struck her again. She was so ugly and strange; how could he want her? But in this, as in anything else, she would not hide the truth.
Slowly, listening for any clue behind her as to his reaction, she reached up and pulled her hair aside, then relaxed her hold on the bedsheet, letting it slip off of her shoulders and down to her hips, revealing her back completely. And the awful lattice of whip-scars that she'd never intentionally shown anyone else. "I know . . . I'm probably not what you're used to," she forced herself to say. "You could have anyone you wanted, and I'm not beautiful or anything. I've been a fighter my whole life, and my looks have never been that important to me."
She took a deep breath, and was surprised to find that she was almost shaking. She'd never shown herself to anyone like this; even in the slave barracks she'd covered herself, not out of some strange custom of privacy, but out of shame. There were scars all over her body---she was proud of those, they were badges of honor---but the old whip-cuts that had never healed properly had nothing to do with battle. They were simply ugly. She'd never been so aware of how ugly those scars were as she was now. He was silent behind her, and she clenched her jaw in anxiety. He must find her so repulsive . . . but she would not display weakness before him . . .
But to her shock, she felt a light touch, one finger only, on her back. It slipped slowly down from her left shoulder to her right side, tracing the line of the longest of the whip-cuts, and she tried not to shudder, feeling increased shame . . . and something else. No one---especially not Radditz---had ever touched her that way. So gently . . .
A step behind her, and suddenly Trunks was close, close enough for her to feel the heat of his body through the thin robe he wore. His hand stayed on her back, and his other hand now grasped her arm, turning her around to face him. She couldn't stop herself from stiffening in tension; she'd never let anyone get this close to her outside of combat in years.
His eyes, in the pale light from the window, were clear and surprisingly dark. "We all have scars," he said softly, and she frowned at him. "Most of mine are on the inside. Some of yours are outside; I don't know which is worse. But it doesn't matter to me. I've thought you were beautiful since . . . well, since the first time we almost killed each other." He smiled, and she ducked her head, suffering a sudden attack of shyness that was completely foreign to her at the sight of his handsome face. But he reached up and put two fingers under her chin, lifting her head again---and then he kissed her. She stiffened, feeling a flutter of something like panic. Radditz had never kissed her, either---but she no longer wanted to compare Trunks to Radditz. There was no comparison. His hand on her back moved over the area with the most profuse scars, and then traced her spine down to the small of her back; she gasped suddenly when his fingers lightly circled the place where her tail had once been. She'd never felt anything remotely like that before. He smiled down at her reaction; it felt like he'd hit her with a small, painless ki blast that somehow felt wonderful. The sheet slipped off completely, and she ignored it.
But then he paused, and a faint frown flitted across his face when she looked up at him. "Shiatar . . . I . . ." Inexplicably he flushed, in that endearing way of his. "I just want you to understand that . . . this isn't about . . . I don't just want . . ."
She sensed what he was trying to say, and it only confirmed her resolve; she'd made a correct choice. She shook her head and smiled, feeling her anxiety recede somewhat. "I understand, Trunks. That's why I came. I knew that you of all people wouldn't use me." She felt herself flush, and lowered her eyes. "It's almost more like I'm using you, really."
He chuckled, reaching down to take her hand. "This isn't about using. That's your world's way. This . . . this is sharing. That's my way." He drew her hand up to his face, and let it fall to his neck and shoulder. "Just trust me. You know I'll never hurt you."
She took a deep breath, and began to explore him with her hands, marvelling at the smoothness of his skin and the hardness of the muscle beneath. When he leaned close, bending to touch his lips to the curve of her shoulder, she noticed his scent, a strange spicy mix that was by no means unpleasant; his hands began to move on her skin, and it was all she could do to maintain some semblance of self-awareness. And as she pushed his robe back and off of him, a last glimmer of mischief moved through her. He looked up at her chuckle.
"Except when we spar together," she replied to his last comment, eyeing him sidelong. "You'd damn well better try to hurt me then . . . or I'll hurt you."
Much later, the moon had set and the darkness of the sky outside of the window was only a precursor to dawn. Shiatar lay, wrapped thoroughly in Trunks' arms, and tried to decide whether or not to betray everything that had meaning to her.
She sighed, langorously, and fought sleep again; he'd just dropped off but he'd earned his rest, and she didn't begrudge him that. He'd talked with her for a long time afterward, and she'd only then realized the depth of his feelings toward her---and hers toward him. She wouldn't be hurting only him if she made her decision tonight. Painfully, she closed her eyes. It wasn't fair. She'd been alone for so long, and hadn't even know it until she'd met him; before, she couldn't have missed what she hadn't understood. Now, however, she knew exactly what she'd be leaving, when she made her choice.
It didn't help that his lovemaking had been one of the most delightful things she'd ever experienced. He'd taken his time, going slowly and carefully, aware of her memories of Radditz---but at some point she'd realized that he'd never been with anything but human women before, and she'd had to remind him that she was by no means as fragile as that. She hadn't meant to remind him so forcefully, but he'd heal in a few days. Still, it had been very nice. She couldn't believe some of the things he'd done to her; while he claimed little prior experience, he must have learned a great deal from it. Some of his skill must have been natural aptitude; like her tail-spot, his fingers had unerringly found other places on her body that, when touched just so . . . Half of her was still tingling in the aftermath. She could stick around this Earth for more of that alone.
She sighed. He'd been sincere about wanting to come with her. She was deeply honored, and touched by his feelings . . . but it changed nothing. Her world's liberation was her responsibility and hers alone. He'd had no help against his Cyborgs; she wanted none against her enemies. And she'd meant it about Vejiita and Kakaloto; the idea of Trunks facing his father and his idol in mortal combat, however different they were from the men he'd known, touched a deep sense of wrongness within her. She must be picking up some of Trunks' morality. Unlikely as it seemed, Trunks had a kind of gentleness at his core that she'd discovered slowly over the past few weeks, and that had begun to influence her. He had his darkness, she knew---but it was a clean darkness, even now. And she would not mar that gentle soul with the stain of patricide, or killing a friend, even though they were not really his Vejiita, or his Son Gokuu. She was the killer, she was the Hand of Death . . . She already had plenty of stains, on her heart and her hands. A few more would make no difference.
But it was hard, so hard, to lift his heavy arm and slip out of the bed. Harder still to look down at him, lying there, his beautiful pale hair spread over the pillow like satin, his sculptured face looking far younger in repose. He'd warned her that he slept like the dead, and true to his word, he did not stir as she bent over him, brushing away the ever-recalcitrant strand that was perpetually in his face, and kissed him. "I'll come back," she whispered to his sleeping face. "I promise."
And then rising, she quietly gathered up her bedsheet, padded out of his room, and closed the door behind her.
The noon sun streaming into his face was what first stirred Trunks from his very pleasant dreams, and reluctantly he turned his face away from its heat, trying to stay in the limbo between sleeping and waking a bit longer. He'd been dreaming about Shiatar again . . .
But memory returned, and he woke a little more. It hadn't been a dream. She'd come last night . . . He stretched, and hissed as he felt dried blood sticking his back to the sheets. What the hell had she been doing, trying to give him a set of scars that matched her own? She'd bitten him, too, damn it, and left a livid crescent on his shoulder---but then, he recalled, permitting himself a bit of smugness, she hadn't exactly hurt him out of anger. He'd used every trick he knew with her the night before, and not a few that occurred to him on the spot; he hadn't known he had it in him. Through his mind passed memories of her face, brows drawn together as if in pain; her green eyes dark with passion; her low, sensuous voice raised in soft cries . . . He sighed lazily, and worked his way toward full consciousness. Maybe she would be amenable to a repetition.
But when he finally opened his eyes and looked around, he was startled to see that she wasn't there. At first he lay back, and thought nothing of it, thinking that perhaps she had returned to her quarters for some reason---he had slept away half of the day. And then intuition began to prickle his consciousness. He frowned to himself, dismissing the nagging thought as insecurity, but then as he thought about it more and more, it worried him so much that finally he got up, prying himself loose from the sheets (ignoring the reopened scratches), and after dressing, he went down the hall to her room. She wasn't there, either . . . and as he looked around, noting that the bedsheet had been returned neatly to the bed, that the whole room was neat, he began to feel something like panic. Anxiously, he went to the drawer where he knew she kept the clothes she'd borrowed from him---and found them there, cleaned and neatly folded. His mother had made some clothing for her, consisting of fighting outfits modeled on his father's original Saiyan uniform and armor, and he searched all the drawers to find them---but they were gone.
Gone. Like Shiatar.
Tense, hoping for one last chance at denying the truth, he left her room and went down to the DITMIX chamber---where his mother was waiting for him. He took one look at her face, and he knew. Bulma's eyes were dark with sadness, and she held out to Trunks the note that Shiatar had left him. He opened it with shaking hands, and it read simply:
"I'm sorry, but this is my battle to fight. Please don't be angry. I'll be back as soon as I can, I promise. Thank you for last night . . . and for helping me heal.---Shiatar."
Bulma watched Trunks read the note, and crumple it between his hands. He did not look up as she told him what had happened. "I went to make breakfast," she said softly, "and there was a note in the kitchen. It . . . told me to come here. When I got here, I could see what she'd done. She . . ." She took a deep breath, knowing that her next words would hurt him badly. "I don't know when she learned to operate the console. But she turned off the alarm, set the gate to her world, and went through---and Trunks, she erased the coordinates of her world afterward, and randomized the setting. There . . . are infinite worlds out there. If she had just erased her own coordinates, I might have been able to find it again, but now . . . I don't even know where to start. She's gone . . . and I . . . can't find her again."
Trunks didn't move, just looked down at his fist, clenched around the note. Bulma took a step toward him; she'd never seen him so still. "Trunks, I'm sorry. I never thought she'd go like this. In her note to me, she said . . . she thanked me, for hugging her. As if no one had ever done that to her before." She shook her head, and went over to him, putting her hand on his arm.
"If . . . if it's any consolation at all, I think she loves you. And I think she meant it when she said she'd come back. I feel that, in my bones."
Trunks turned away from her and lowered his hand, opening it; the paper had turned to ash, and drifted to the floor. "I hope you're right, Okaasan," he said softly, and Bulma winced; all of hell was in his voice. "Because I think I love her, too."
And a year passed.
