Sown from the ashes of hard victory earn'd
Birthed in tears of sorrow
His left hand holds the Cup of Abundance
His right hand holds the Door
--from the Dai Shen Kan's Birth of the Two Dragons, verse 17
It was because Juunanagou was good at his job.
That was the reason why Yamucha chose him. And Trunks as well, after a while. Took the boy longer to come around. Despite it being a different future, a different outcome, it seemed the fair-haired Saiya-jin never forgot what artificial humans had wrought on his planet—and on Trunks himself. Or maybe it was the natural, wary distrust he inherited from his father. Even after Baby, and many many years after Cell, Juunanagou could remember going to family functions and feeling the slick cold of his black eyes watching him.
But that was before. Before Yamucha came to his mountain and asked for his help. Before the drones flew above, hunting for his niece and Son Gohan's family. Before the job.
And he liked his job.
It wasn't the intimidation he saw in the faces of others, It wasn't the torture—he was no sadist.
It was the simplicity of being needed. Of having a function and performing it as part of a well-managed system.
Juunanagou was a machine. He never forgot that. And he was never ashamed of it, either.
He let the cold autumn air slide through his fingers as he landed on sandy ground. Immediately sticking his hands into his pockets, his black boots found a shell half buried. The cyborg toed it in the dirt, not even pausing to look up at the two young children that each exclaimed, “Uncle!” and ran to him. They both stopped just short of him, leaning in to scrutinize their uncle's discovery. Finally, Juunanagou started and kicked the shell in the sky. Marron's youngest—a little boy—jumped, an 'eep' slipping out from his lips. A smile played on Juunanagou's lips as he stooped down to grab the two brothers in a brief embrace. He looked up at the small, familiar pink house. His same cool blue eyes met him from the doorway.
“When do you leave?”
She poured another steaming cup of ruddy brown tea from the pot, not bothering with the light-colored heat guard. The skin on her hand flushed. She didn't notice.
“Three days. 0600 hours, Standard Time,” Juunanagou answered. “They're putting me on the Dadaelus for the trip up to Serulia II.”
Juuhachigou's face did not lighten at his mentioning of the expensive cruise liner. Not that he thought it would. She placed her freshly-burned hand palm down on the table. It would blister later, her brother was certain.
“When are you going to get tired of it? Either of you?” she asked, looking out the nearest window as her grandsons played outside.
“Whenever Trunks gets through playing God, I suppose,” came Juunanagou's cool reply.
His sister's eyes narrowed sharply at his words. He knew how she felt about how they were using him. He, and the man she called husband. Krillin had grown feeble of body, Juunanagou though, but not feeble of mind. And Yamucha had dragged him into the thick of the business as well. So the young Saiyajins had—once again—pulled his sister's family into one of their messy affairs. He could be angry about it. He should have been. But Juunanagou wasn't the type to let anger distract from a task he was given. And what was more...
“You agree with all of this. I know that.”
She was always straight with him. It was how they were, since they both could remember. From what fuzzy memories of their shared childhood that he retained, he knew that they as siblings were never disingenuous with one another.
“I do.”
“Juunana--”
“Think about it the way you did before. When they passed those laws. When they profiled you. Sent cameras to watch Marron at school.”
“I remember. But what Trunks is doing is--”
“'Wrong'?”
She paused, and her brother pressed the advantage.
“Where were the Kaio when we were being watched like animals at a zoo? They sat on their asses and watched, too. Right along with everyone else.”
Juuhachigou crossed her arms, her gaze boring into his. “Vegeta did not mean for his son to become a dictator.”
“No. He didn't. He meant for him to live in peace.” Juunanagou said. “But has there ever been a peace that his father and Son Gokou didn't create?”
A pause. “You're starting to sound like one of them,” she spoke, standing.
He was silent for a moment before he stood as well, walking along the wall nearest the ivory-hemmed window. He observed what he usually did when he came to visit (which wasn't often) on the cream-pink wallpaper. His niece's first tennis competition. His sister's wedding. A large dinner where, centered and smiling, the old man Roshi celebrated his birthday. His last birthday, Juunanagou recalled suddenly. The pervert had went in his sleep just a few months later. Juunanagou let his eyes wander to the final pictures on the wall: One with a young man in a red gi, hair fanning around his head. He was smiling.
Juunanagou couldn't remember a time, honestly, where the man wasn't smiling.
“I'm not going to defend the things he has done. But...” And he flopped down on the nearby couch, leaning his folded arms over the headrest as he spoke. “...Let's be hypothetical for a moment.”
Juuhachigou turned to him. “You want to have a hypothetical discussion about Trunks and Yamucha, and Serulia's invasion?”
Juunanagou didn't flinch at her use of the word, the one that surely played on the lips of every honest journalist in Farole's free press. He could still see the wall portraits out of the corner of his eye.
“Trunks takes control, and the starving countries of the world are fed. Trunks takes control, and warring planets declare truce. He takes control and diseases are cured.”
Juuhachigou glared. “Am I supposed to be thankful, impressed, or both?”
“Neither. What happened, happened. You didn't ask for it. You didn't hope for it. It was an event you couldn't control. Yamucha came up with a plan, Trunks enacted it. And it worked. It saved trillions of lives. It saved us.”
For a moment, Juuhachigou was speechless.
“You want me to call Trunks taking over Chikyuu and the known universe...a miracle?”
“I wasn't going to use that word, but...”
Juunanagou circled around his sister, reaching for his cup.
“A miracle,” the female cyborg repeated expectantly.
“We are living, breathing, thinking beings,” Juunanagou continued. “Not necessarily tied down to the ideas and constraints of belief and non-belief. So what do we believe? What exists?”
Outside, one of the children threw a stray twig into the ever-swelling tide.
“I'll tell you what exists. Strength. People believe in strength. They believe in power, and the individuals who use it. That's the way of the living being,” he finished.
His sister frowned again. “That is the way of docile beings. Ones who let others think for them.”
“It is not a requirement of existence to think hard. If only it were,” Juunanagou replied, his long black hair catching the rays of sunset. “We ourselves have placed faith in the strength of others before. We trusted them to provide us with a safe, free world.”
Juuhachigou walked past a chair, and almost absent-mindedly smoothed the wrinkles on its cover.
“I see your point,” she started. “We pay a price for freedom and safety. No matter who collects, the fee is the same.”
Her brother nodded once, and her face became distant.
Juuhachigou paused. “My price...was my husband.”
For the first time in their conversation, Juunanagou looked surprised.
“I always pressured him to do things to move our family up in the world. When Yamucha first asked him to be foreign minister, he wanted to say no. I could see it. But he felt guilty. He felt he was letting us down by not stepping up. For not taking the job, the money, the honors...so he did it. It went against everything he stood and fought for. But he did it. For his family. For...for me.”
“The money came. I spent it. The fame and respect was— is —there. I reveled in it. And I felt that what we were doing had purpose. There were other worlds that needed help. That needed education, technology, food, and infrastructure. We went out and were a part of something greater. At least, for a while.”
Juunanagou's eyes met with his sister's.
“Trunks built an empire on a lie,” she said flatly. “And when we realized that, everything good we did went out the window.”
Her twin was silent for a moment.
“You and Krillin still have everything you wanted. Everything you will ever need, and more.”
“What they are making you and Krillin do is wrong,” Juuhachigou replied.
“Wrong, in the sense that you don't agree. Trillions are better off than they were 15 years ago, sister. Is it wrong? The universe has a common enemy. Planets are safe from invasion. Is that wrong? Is Trunks wrong?”
Juunanagou leaned forward, resting his chin on the back of his free hand.
“Is he wrong,” he repeated. “Or is he terribly, terribly right?”
She moaned and rolled over to one side, her bare thigh sliding against hard stomach. Another low sound, and two feet slid from the bedside and landed lightly on the floor.
Goten rubbed his eyes, faulting to one side as he got his bearings. His companion made a noise of discontent: He ignored it and ventured from the lounge.
He grabbed clumsily at the food and fruit his attendants always left him, stuffing a plum in his mouth and taking a bottle of liquor from the tray. Swigging as he walked, Goten left his naked form pass one window...two...and a third, before he stopped. Turning his head only an inch, his shoulders tensed at the light wind that sailed through the room.
He quickly, almost instinctively, shut the window, closing the drapes with just as much force.
All of his senses heightened, he padded toward the master bedroom. Frowning, he sent a rush of ki to the entrance. Gauzy curtains fluttered. He scanned corner to corner. Nothing.
But Goten still did not relax.
“I don't know how you got past the security drones, nor the guards,” he whispered, to both himself and his unknown visitor. “But you should know that those things are not for my protection. They protect you from me.”
No response. Goten stepped forward, starting as something clattered at his foot in the darkness.
A tiny red staff, worn by time, lay on the marble floor. Goten nearly leapt back. Composing himself, he let his eyes dart from left to right.
“This isn't funny!” he growled.
A noise came from behind him and he sprang, turning in mid-air into a fighting stance. Then he took off into the expanse of the hallway. Because for the briefest of seconds, Goten could have sworn he saw a red gi sailing in the distance.
No, he thought, now flying through his home after the intruder. No, I am just drunk. Sleepy. He caught the glimpse of red gi again, but whenever he got closer it pulled away.
“Get back here, get back--!”
He turned corner after corner, for what seemed forever.
And as suddenly as the chase began, it was over. The next turn led into a room Goten had designed with no other outlet into another space. The Red Shirt had stopped, turned facing a corner of the room. The demi-Saiyajin advanced slowly.
“Cooperation is key for you at this point,” he said. Passing gingerly by a table mounted with ornate vases. “Here's a breakdown of what's probably going to happen to you: Defense forces will come, because by now the ki sensors around the compound have picked up my signature and accelerated heart rate. They'll arrest you, interrogate you. They might call in Juunanagou if the going gets tough; and trust me, you don't want that.”
The closer he walked, the more unnerved he became. The intruder wasn't panting, not heaving with breath like he should have been. He was unnaturally silent. Another machine? Goten swallowed his hesitance.
“Then they'll turn you over to the Council. They will vote, or decide, or...well, they will basically do whatever Trunks says to do with you. Ship you off to a Farolian prison, maybe. And those are no joke.”
But Goten's words wavered with uncertainty despite his declarations. He saw the filth that covered the man's clothes, and smelled a stench so strong it almost choked him. The gi was torn, caked with blood. Wild hair fanned over it, grown and unkempt, its texture dry and fading. All falling over the symbol of a turtle emblazoned on its back.
Goten's eyes widened, and the figure turned.
“Goten.”
He jolted awake in his bed, the only immediate sound his heavy breathing. Goten raised his hand to shield his eyes from the encroaching rays of sun leaking through the shuttered windows.
Walking to the foyer, the food was as he had found it before. A security drone floated close to the second door.
“My lord Second-born?” The detached voice echoed through the vaulted ceilings. “Good morning. Would you like a print-out of today's schedule?”
“Maybe later,” came his reply, his voice like gravel in his throat. He poured some Serulian ale.
“We detected a rapid increase in your heart rate, local time approximately 3:46 standard hours.” the drone continued. “Is everything—“
“Fine.”
Silence.
“Was it another dream, My Lord?”
And this time, unlike the others, Goten did not try to deny it.
She was biting her nails.
Bra looked at her watch for the fifth time in the past hour. Her hair was down, tumbling over the front of her shift. She ran her hand through it—it hadn't been combed all day.
The familiar rush of wind, and Gohan stepped in through a stone window. Bra leapt from her seat, breath stopping in her chest.
“Why did you call me so late?” the eldest Son was saying as Bra plowed into his open arms. He pulled back, scanning her face. “...What is it?”
Bra shook her head, putting her hands to her face.
“He knows,” she whispered faintly.
Gohan paused. “...Trunks?”
As Bra nodded, the older Saiyajin paled.
“He says he has known for a while, he just...he just didn't say anything.”
“So what...what is he going to do?”
Bra walked out of his embrace, turning away. She went to her work table, the only real furniture in the courtyard, and touched an envelope placed neatly over a blank notepad.
“I don't know,” she replied, wiping her face and facing him again. “I can't see you anymore. You can't come here. They are setting up surveillance systems tomorrow.”
“How did he find out? Did he say when?” Gohan's face was neutral, but his voice betrayed him.
She looked away. “Not sure,” she said.
A pause. “That's it, then.”
Bra started. “Gohan--”
“That's it, Bra,” he said, more firm this time. “It's over. We can't do this anymore.”
“Gohan, listen...”
“No. There is no room for that. This was...this was a mistake to begin with.”
At those words, she shook her head. Tears were gathering in the corners of her eyes.
“You don't mean that. You don't,” insisted Bra.
Rather than answer, Son Gohan glared, his sullen face a mix of guilt and anger.
“This is just him, overreacting.” She walked fiercely to stand in front of him. “It will pass.”
“I slept with his sister. This is not going to 'pass', Bra!”
“With Serulia, Trunks will rule the galaxy. No one can touch him, and he'll be so busy--”
Bra had grabbed his hands as she was talking, but Gohan pulled them away.
“This isn't sneaking around on school nights,” the Firstborn took a deep breath. “This was going to happen sooner or later. Videl needs me, Bra. And this...” He gestured around the courtyard, half-afraid to include her in his swath. “This is not where I belong.”
And Bra looked as if she'd been slapped.
“I understand.” The reply was numb.
Gohan nodded slowly, and made a somber turn to the window he had entered through. Bra, her hair covering her lowered face, cast a glance over her shoulder, to the envelope on the table.
“He's been lying. This entire time. He's been lying.”
“I know that, Bra,” replied Gohan, his back still turned to her. “But as long as he and Yamucha--”
“No, Gohan.”
He stepped back to look. Bra was holding glossy, monotone prints in her hand.
“...I didn't want this to happen, Gohan. I didn't.”
She moved closer, holding the prints towards him.
Gohan took the dossier, frowning. “What is--”
“Something you should see,” was all she would say.
