Trunks sat staring off at nothing in particular, drowning in his own thoughts. Mirai had long since gone, leaving without a word and closing the door that now struck Trunks as very far away. Susan hadn't moved, her tiny fingers still wrapped around his thumb like an infant, something, he mused, she was in a sense. Young, naive, gullible and punished as a result of all three. And here he sat like a love sick fool, completely infatuated by her; obsessed and unable to tear himself away.
Her pretty face, so mauled by tubes and crude bandages, remained to him, a precious painting; a morbid work of art. She was the immovable marble that a artist had fallen in love with, working years to create the result that was on its own, perfection. And yet, she wasn't a painting, or an unfeeling statue. She was human and it struck him as odd that he wanted to see her as something else. Something untouchable, something that couldn't experience all of the torment Mirai had promised she would.
Maybe that was the reasoning behind it. As much as he adored inflicting pain, he couldn't understand it. It was as though he were throwing pebbles at a rock base, completely incapable of truly effecting it. Or perhaps, in Susan's case, he only wished it were true. That she was a rock, that she was unbreakable, untamable. That despite the enormous cruelties inflicted upon her, she could remain uneffected.
It was the first time in a long time that he actually felt compelled to protect something. The first time in a long time he actually cared about something other than himself. And he felt sickened by it.
Twisting his hand away from hers, he stood up, nearly crying out in fear when cold, hard fingers wrapped around his wrist. His eyes darted downwards, catching the icy blue peering out from bruised lids, blood surrounding one in a haunting gaze. Susan had opened her eyes.
He felt as a deer must feel, caught in the oncoming headlights and horrified at the resounding horn. He gazed at her face, terrified but entranced that his granite figure had morphed into this tiny girl that was staring up at him. There was nothing in her eyes that registered knowledge or understanding, only a cold, calculating stare. And for as blue as they were, Trunks could only see her eyes as though they belonged to a dead corpse, dull and lifeless.
She had been damaged and despite the shards that doctors had strived so hard to sew back together, Trunks knew now what Mirai had meant when he'd said that inside, Susan lay in pieces.
......................................
Mirai had flown what seemed for hours, trying to decipher so many questions that littered his mind like confetti. Had Trunks registered anything that Mirai had told him? Had he cared? Had he been touched by any of it? As much as Mirai had prided himself on reading emotions, Trunks was simply a master at hiding them, perhaps even more skilled than even HE realized. Mirai had watched the younger version, waiting after each word to see any change, but it had never come and only cold indifference had appeared on the beautiful face.
Yet even after he had left, the young tyrant sat, holding the tiny girl's hand in his, staring off into space. Mirai could only shake his head. As much as people complained that Trunks was a mystery, Mirai himself was more confused than any of them. It was easy to believe that the younger man felt nothing, experienced nothing in the way of emotion. It was always easier to assume the worst in a cruel person than to explore the reasons as to why they'd become that way in the first place.
It was a human flaw to see meanness as a reflection of heartlessness. But to see Trunks as a person, to try and imagine there was much more to him than anyone else could believe? That was the difficult part and Mirai cursed himself, torn between the idea that there WAS perhaps good in the younger Saiyan, and torn between the idea that maybe he just wanted there to be and was disillusioning himself in the pursuit of it.
Sensing the desired Ki, Mirai touched down on the outskirts of what appeared to be some sort of cave, a wide, red door leading into it. Ignoring his manners, he walked right in, appalled by the dust and cobwebs that met him inside a dreary, musty room. The only light was a small, oval window in the corner, rays clouded by particles of dust as they reached down and illuminated the form of a young man, face nestled in the binding of a book.
Taking in his surroundings, Mirai had to twist his face in disgust, the room completely covered in soot and dirt from the small fire place. The walls consisted of countless books and papers, a mattress serving as a bed in the corner. Old, dirty dishes sat tipped over on a wooden table, pieces of dried food stuck to the unwashed surfaces. It was appalling, and as he made his way over towards the sleeping man, his feet crunched the corpses of large insects that had remained unsquashed throughout their lifetimes.
Touching the man's shoulder and attempting not to startle him, Mirai was shocked when he found himself thrown half way across the room, landing with a crash as he knocked over the table. The young man stood over him, eyes red and glazed with sleep, fury plastered over handsome features.
"Trunks," was the only word that was spat through unbrushed, yellowed teeth, and Mirai winced as a fist came flying towards his chest. Rock and debris shattered all around them and the attacker blinked in astonishment, unable to believe that he had missed. What should have been a direct, fatal blow had failed and his only result consisted of bruised and bloodied knuckles.
"Calm down," a voice said behind him. "I'm not Trunks, I'm Mirai. I believe we met once when you were much younger."
The attacker visually calmed, feeling the warmth of two hands holding his shoulders.
"That's right." The voice said softly. "Do you remember me?"
The attacker closed his eyes.
"Do you remember me Gohan?"