Disclaimer: DB/Z/GT are the properties of Akira Toriyama, Toei Animation, and FUNimation Studios. I make no profit from this story (though I've been tempted) and do not claim the characters as my own. Only Kioku is mine, and no one may steal him. He's just too sweet.

A/N: I'm almost embarrassed to be posting again; it's been over two years, if I remember correctly. I refuse to look at the 'Updated ...' link on my stats page, because it's horrifically in the past.

What can I say? I sort of fell out of DBZ for a while, and any fanfic writer can tell you that it's difficult, if not impossible, to get back it a fandom from which you've drifted. I felt I'd said all I could say, and besides — I'm in university now, too. Spare time is more of a luxury than a right.

However, one day I sat down with a piece of paper and wrote down what I wanted to accomplish in Chapter 11. A page and a half of point form later, I sat down and began to write. Surprisingly, once I sat down and dedicated myself to it, this chapter came out in a matter of days. I've re-opened my wrist fracture (gotta love RSIs), but it's more than worth it. Kioku is a great character, and I love him to pieces.

Hmm. You guys have waited two-ish years for the next chapter, not my inane babbling, so ... on with the show!

Deeper Than Colour -- The Kioku Story

Chapter Ten: Through Death, Time and Eternity; When Embraces Last Forever

Son Kioku stood next to his adoptive father, listening to Piccolo quarrel, once again, with the Lord of the Underworld and Supreme Judger of Souls, Enma Dai-Ou. "They fight a lot," he remarked under his breath, glancing down at Goku.

"They're like an old married couple, aren't they," Son Goku chuckled, and Kioku grinned. He'd never get used to looking down at Goku, but he was just going to have to accept it. Trunks stood a head higher than Vegeta now, something that the young demi-Saiyajin never tired of pointing out.

Not, of course, that they would have long to live with it. If all went well, the Namekusejin dragon Porunga would wish Kioku and Trunks back to life and send them to Earth before the day was over.

Kioku was trying not to think about it. Ten years was a long time, and he knew he'd become accustomed to "living" in Other World with Goku, Piccolo, and the other senshi. There was no way to wish them back to life; and if Piccolo was correct about Kioku and Trunks' potential, then Kioku wouldn't get to see his friends for a very long time.

The young Namekusejin shook his head and focussed on the conversation. Currently, Piccolo was striving to obtain permission to fuse with Kioku, arguing that if he were to become the Earth's new Guardian, he would need Kami-sama's knowledge.

"My answer is no," the giant ogre proclaimed, folding his hands and setting them down on his desk with a particularly loud thump. "By fusing with your son, you would effectively be bringing yourself back to life, as well. And that is simply not allowed."

Piccolo was livid, though only the curl of his lip and a slight rasp to his voice betrayed his emotion. "Do you think I care about coming back to life?" he demanded, "But you can't expect him to be Guardian all by himself! The boy doesn't even know how to create Dragonballs!"

"Some Guardian he'll be, if he can't figure things out for himself," Enma Dai-Ou said primly. It was difficult to imagine such a large being looking priggish, but somehow, Enma Dai-Ou managed it. "I understand your concern, Piccolo, but my answer is final."

Piccolo reigned in his temper with visible effort, pulling his gleaming fangs back behind his lips. Kioku sensed the churning thoughts inside his birth father's mind, and he winced at some of the obscenities rolling around there.

"I will inform the inhabitants of Namekusei to begin collecting their Dragonballs, and I'll write up the necessary paperwork and such to give Porunga the power to resurrect them. You may all go," Enma Dai-Ou waved a large, thick-fingered hand at them. "I will transport you to Neo-Namekusei in three hours."

"Well, that went well," Goku quipped, throwing an arm around Kioku's shoulders. "You gonna be all right, Piccolo?"

"Quiet," Piccolo growled, falling into step beside them. "That buffoon — he doesn't understand the situation at all! It's a wonder he even made this position."

Trunks spoke up for the first time, his tone sarcastic. "Yeah, I bet he got his job because of his good looks," the lavender-haired teenager laughed. He tossed an arrogant, amused glance at Kioku, who returned it in kind.

The young man had certainly grown up handsome, as Kuririn often remarked with a tinge of jealousy in his voice. Kioku wasn't too certain how the human (or Saiyajin) standard of aesthetics was measured, but even he had to marvel at how much Trunks had changed. Gone were the round face and baby cheeks, the too-big ears and clumsy gait. Trunks was now tall and lean, though his long, pale hair still refused to stick up in proper Saiyajin fashion — much to Vegeta's chagrin.

As though he'd read Kioku's mind, Trunks put a hand to his shaggy ponytail and laughed. "Mom probably won't even recognize me with this, eh?"

"If she doesn't throw you out thinking you're a beggar, she'll attack you with shears," Vegeta smirked, "She'd have done it to me, if I'd let her."

Goku just snickered. "If you'd 'let her', eh?" he elbowed the smaller fighter, whose face darkened as though he knew what Goku was about to say. "Somehow it always struck me that Bulma wore the pants in the relationship."

Everyone swivelled to see Vegeta's reaction, but the powerful warrior checked his obvious fury with admirable skill. "Like you're one to talk, Kakkarot," he snorted. "Mine isn't the only one who's in control."

Maybe it was just his imagination, but Kioku thought he saw pride flicker over both Vegeta and Goku's faces as they considered their respective companions. Whether it truly was there or not, it made Kioku smile.

Piccolo dropped an arm on Kioku's shoulder and pulled him aside. Kioku looked at his father questioningly, but Piccolo shook his head.

Enma Dai-Ou is a fool, Piccolo's voice rang in Kioku's mind, sharp with accusation and barely withheld passion. He does not realize what he is doing. We must complete the fusion, with or without his permission.

But Father! Kioku protested, shock permeating even his mental 'voice'. Enma Dai-Ou is a Supreme Being! Don't you think he knows what he's doing?

Piccolo's face twitched as though he was repressing a snort or some such expression of distaste. Feh. Don't be ridiculous. If we perform the transfer quickly enough, he'll never know. For all he pays attention, I could be sulking in hell for the rest of eternity. By the time he figures it out, you'll be back on Earth, and the time for him to intervene will be long gone.

To Kioku, the idea sounded dangerous, like the time, many years ago, when Trunks had suggested putting a metal bowl in Bulma's microwave to see if it really would explode. However, Piccolo was older and wiser than he was, and not known for being a rash person, and Kioku had come to trust him implicitly.

And yet . . .

Father . . . the thought came to him slowly, and Kioku hesitated to voice it in case he became the target of Piccolo's all-too-volatile ire. Are you sure you don't want to come back yourself, even in the slightest?

His progenitor stared at him with palpable disbelief. Did you not hear —

Not even to see Gohan? Kioku pressed. At this, a slight twinge came from Piccolo's emotions, and Kioku nodded mentally. He'd thought so.

Various fledgling expressions worked their way over Piccolo's facial muscles before his usual emotionless façade quashed them. At last, he turned away, and his mental voice carried the note of something that was almost, but not quite, a sigh.

I miss him, Piccolo's face spasmed in a dark frown, and his fangs glistened in the light, suddenly revealed. I've fought against it; these feelings cloud my judgment. I know this.

Father —

Say nothing of this! The older Namekusejin snapped at him, turning the full fury of his glare upon Kioku. Yes, I want to see Gohan again. I've thought about it for some time now, being able to speak to him through you. But that is not why I insist on our fusing.

Kioku smiled a little, wishing he could show his father some sort of affection, but knowing it would not be welcome. I understand.

Do you? Piccolo's words carried a snarl now, but he quickly pushed it back. Gah, don't kill yourself over it. It's not your fault.

Well, no matter what, Father, I want to fuse with you. I accepted the position of Guardian, and I can't do it on my own.

"Guys? Yo, guys!"

Kioku and Piccolo spun around to see the three Saiyajin ahead of them, staring at them with mixed expressions of amusement, confusion, and annoyance. Goku grinned. "Not that I'm being nosy or anything, but would you mind talking out loud so we can all understand you?"

Had Kioku been any other species, he would have blushed. He felt guilty each time Trunks caught him having a telepathic conversation, for his friend always looked at him with mild betrayal. Not for the first time, Kioku wondered if it was possible to forge a mental link with Trunks so they could communicate, as well.

"You weren't making fun of my hair, were you?" Trunks grinned, slinging an arm around Kioku's shoulders. It was slightly more difficult for him to do so now, with their height difference, but it didn't matter to Trunks. Nothing did.

"Only a little," Kioku teased. It was odd that they were so cheerful on the day they were to leave their fathers and friends, but he supposed it was only natural. All the senshi were adept at concealing their true emotions when a job needed doing. "Want me to cut it off again before we go home?"

Trunks shook his head, and he reached behind his neck to play with the shank of hair again. "Nah. I'm actually kinda' attached to it, you know?"

Kioku knew. They'd both become connected to little things that reminded them of the life they'd spent training, and he predicted they would both have trouble relinquishing them. For Kioku, one such item was the pendant that hung around his neck, beneath his gi. It was a seashell from one of heaven's beaches, fastened on a leather thong with many knots.

Kuririn fashioned it for him in secret, one knot for each battle Kioku won against one of the senshi, a double knot for each new technique learned. Apparently, the former monk had made a similar necklace for himself during his childhood training, and had fingered the string when discouraged, counting each accomplishment. He'd given Kioku the necklace only the night before, when Kaio-sama declared their training complete.

Kioku played with it now, liking the way the rough leather felt beneath his fingers. Trunks caught him, and the older boy — correction, young man — favoured him with a knowing smile.

Goku made a face. "You know what? To heck with telepathy; you kids 'talk' without talking all the time."

The comment made Kioku remember his mental query about making a link with Trunks. With the two of them training together constantly, it wasn't such a concern, but upon their imminent return to Earth, he thought it might come in handy.

"Father?" Kioku glanced at Trunks, who raised an eyebrow in question. "Is it possible to join two minds together, even if one is not Namekusejin?"

Piccolo nodded shortly. "Yes. I have a bond with Gohan," his eyes suddenly looked far away, and a peaceful, almost reminiscent emotion washed through his mind. It surprised Kioku, who wasn't used to such soft feelings in his father. As soon as Kioku detected it, however, the tendril of memory vanished and Piccolo gave him a hard look. "Tenshinhan and Chaozu do, as well. Why? Do you want to create one?"

"Well, Trunks-kun is always whining about not knowing what I say to you," Kioku jostled Trunks, chuckling when his friend poked him in return. "And I thought it would be an asset in battle; you know, so we could coordinate attacks without our opponents hearing us."

"That would be very useful," Vegeta agreed, his face thoughtful. "Those damned jinzouningen are tricky; any advantage would be of great help to you."

That Trunks brightened at the idea did not escape Kioku's notice, and he felt secretly pleased. It always bothered him that Trunks felt, well, jealous was the only word — though the demi-Saiyajin staunchly denied it — about the bond between Kioku and Piccolo. He didn't want his best friend to feel left out of anything.

"Sounds good to me," Trunks piped up, "That would definitely help us when we combine kamehameha waves."

"So how would we set one up?" Kioku asked, anxious to get his idea underway, but also with the motive to stall the fusion. He didn't like the idea of deceiving Enma Dai-Ou at all, and if he could get distract Piccolo long enough . . .

Piccolo frowned. "I'm not sure. With Gohan, it was always just . . . there. I tuned my mind to his when he was in the desert training, so I could check his progress without requiring my being there. Gohan, being curious, played with the link until he figured out what it was, and somehow managed to strengthen it."

"Oh," Kioku scratched his head, wondering how to go about this. He was an adult now, but retained the childish quality that when he got a plan, he wanted to do it right now.

"Just try to touch Trunks' mind," Piccolo's shoulders lifted in the slightest inclination of a shrug. "Trunks, if you feel the contact, reach out to it. If your minds join and you both push it, a bond should form. Its strength depends on how close you two are, and that shouldn't be a problem."

Kioku nodded. He closed his eyes and pushed his consciousness forward, out of his mind. It connected with Piccolo immediately, out of reflex, but the other Namekusejin shoved it away with evident impatience. Kioku pulled the questioning tendril back and tried again, but to no avail.

Frustrated, Kioku stepped forward, placed one hand on either side of Trunks' face, and rested his forehead against Trunks'. "Why, Kioku," Trunks batted his eyelids in mock coquetry, a bizarre effect due to their proximity, "I didn't know you felt this way."

"Shut up," Kioku snorted. Fortunately, he was used to his friend's antics, or he would have no doubt been rather nonplussed. "You're breaking my concentration."

"Sorry," dutifully, though not without a roguish wink, Trunks closed his eyes and his brow furrowed.

With physical contact established, it was much easier for Kioku to contact Trunks' mind. Trunks had no skill in this area, a fact evidenced by the clumsy way in which he manipulated his consciousness. When Kioku attempted to form the bond, Trunks answered with a push that actually hurt.

"Ow!" Kioku exclaimed, pulling back in surprise. Trunks rubbed his temples, his mouth twisting in a grimace of pain. Somebody needs to teach him how to control his mind, Kioku thought, feeling a slight tinge of superiority that he needed no such coaching.

"Hey!" Trunks scowled, "Of course somebody has to teach me. I'm new at this, ya' know."

"Trunks?" Goku tilted his head to one side. "Nobody said anything."

"He did!" Trunks pointed at Kioku, looking cross. "He said I can't control my mind and someone should show me how."

The others shook their heads, and slowly, comprehension dawned on the two friends. "I guess that means it worked," Trunks looked sceptical, and he snapped his eyes shut again. The tip of his tongue poked out from the corner of his mouth, a habit he'd not yet abandoned from childhood.

I feel very stupid doing this, the thought came into Kioku's mind, tentatively. It's as if I'm talking to a wall or something. I don't even know if you can hear me.

Kioku broke into a wide grin. No, I can, he made eye contact with Trunks, who beamed in spite of himself. This might be fun!

"You should be able to feel each other's emotions, as well," Piccolo cut in, "As for distance, you'll have to experiment to find the limit."

Suddenly, Trunks stopped short. "Wait!" he burst out, "Can we turn this off?"

Piccolo blinked. It was obvious he'd never even considered such a thing with Gohan. "How do you mean?"

Trunks' cheeks, stained with a splash of red, supported the strong sense of embarrassment that Kioku sensed flooding from him. "Well, after we've defeated the jinzouningen and have normal lives and all . . . say I get a girlfriend. If we're . . . well . . . you know, will Kioku be able to tell exactly what we're doing?"

The older fighters coughed almost in unison and became very busy examining their boots. Kioku, with no idea what was going on, looked at Trunks in confusion. Finally, Goku spoke up. "I'd say yes," he glanced up, and Kioku was surprised to note that all three of their faces were flushing. "I mean, we can tell that from how their ki is spiking, so it'll probably be worse for you . . ."

Kioku threw up his hands. "What are you talking about?"

Trunks sniggered, recovering a little of his self-control. "You wouldn't understand, Mister Asexual," for a moment, the lanky, battle-worn youth became once again a snarky six-year-old with biting humour.

Kioku drew his bottom lip between his teeth. "Does this have to do with that whole gender thing?" Trunks nodded. "Oh. But how come Father knows?"

Goku let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. "Piccolo, uh, found out the hard way. His ki sense is stronger than most, thanks to his telepathy, and —"

"That's enough," Piccolo snapped, ending the bizarre conversation abruptly. The others seemed relieved, and Kioku decided to drop it; Trunks slammed down a distinct negative before he could even frame a mental question.

Sexual beings certainly are strange, Kioku thought — to himself, but Trunks' ears reddened nonetheless. Maybe such a strong bond wasn't entirely a good idea.

"Don'tcha think we should get going?" Goku's cheerful voice broke through the awkwardness as he clasped Piccolo and Vegeta by the shoulders. Kioku and Trunks held on; their surroundings shimmered briefly, and returned to normal outside Kaio-sama's house.

Kioku blinked. Balloons, streamers, and tables of food filled the tiny yard. The other warriors stood in front of the house, grinning or smirking as their personalities saw fit, and when their images firmly coalesced, Kuririn burst from the group to wrap both Kioku and Trunks in as much of a hug as his short arms could manage.

"I'm so proud of you guys!" the middle-aged human's eyes streamed with tears, from happiness or sorrow, Kioku wasn't sure which. He guessed a little bit of both. "No, really! You have no idea how freakin' strong you are now!"

"They get hints now and then, hey?" Goku laughed, walking to Kuririn and dropping his arm on the smaller man's shoulders. Kuririn reached up and gripped Goku's hand, leaning against his friend for support. Goku smiled at him, but the corners of his eyes didn't crinkle as they usually did. A look passed between them that Kioku didn't quite understand.

Kuririn-san's taking this hard, Trunks' voice came loudly into Kioku's mind, unaccustomed to hearing anyone but Piccolo. It's like we were his kids, too.

Yes, I think so, too. Kioku nodded, realizing Trunks was correct. I think Dad and Kuririn-san understand each other on that point.

"Aw, heck," Kuririn scrubbed at his eyes, beaming up at them as best he could. "Don't get down just 'cause I'm sad," his voice turned wistful for a moment. "It's just that . . . well, with you two around, I didn't regret not being able to have kids myself. When you're gone, it's gonna be tough."

"We're all gonna miss you guys," Yamucha spoke up, and like Goku, his disarming grin didn't quite reach his eyes. "I remember how psyched I was to get a second chance — but I didn't have to deal with it from the other side."

Vegeta snorted. "I'm just disappointed that I won't be the one to dispatch those tin cans, that's all."

Kioku's mouth quirked and Trunks laughed, neither of them contradicting the Saiyajin Prince. Vegeta huffed anyway, and headed for the food table, followed by an enthusiastic Goku who'd obviously just been waiting for someone else to go first.

But despite how much they joked and laughed, Kioku could see it on all their faces. It made more than one pun fall flat, and caused several long silences. But what could they do? He and Trunks had to go back, and that was that.

During one awkward pause, Piccolo drew him aside. "Now's the time," he muttered, "If we are to do this, we must do it now."

Sick of arguing and knowing Piccolo would have his way anyhow, Kioku merely nodded. He shoved his misgivings aside with reluctant dutifulness, and squared off against Piccolo. "I'm sorry for doubting you earlier, Father."

"Don't bother," Piccolo scowled, though the hard edges of his face relaxed infinitesimally. "Come."

The two hovered in the air in lotus position, something they'd done so many times in meditation that the others were sure to think nothing of it. "Concentrate on leaving your mind completely open," Piccolo instructed, and Kioku winced. He always left some barriers up; it didn't feel safe otherwise. "How else do you expect us to fuse?" Piccolo snapped.

Kioku closed his eyes and focussed on taking down his mental obstacles; in his mind they were like a thick wall of vines, impenetrable to any who wished to pry, and he imagined burning them with ki blasts.

Soon, he felt a cold, almost slimy sensation touch against his mind. Kioku recoiled without thinking, but Piccolo stopped him. Don't resist! It is not pleasant, I know.

No, not at all, Kioku shuddered; the tendrils creeping into his consciousness felt like nothing he'd ever experienced. They were invasive and forceful, unlike mutual conversations, which left a warm, soothing sensation behind.

All at once, a thick and powerful evil slammed into him, knocking him from his meditative position and almost to the ground. Kioku gasped and refrained from throwing up defences only with the greatest effort; he could feel the other presence searching through his mind greedily.

Piccolo pulled back with a gasp, sweat pouring from his smooth skin. "Well," he said, words nearly obscured by his laboured breathing, too suddenly exhausted to use telepathy. "That was unexpected."

"What just happened?" Kioku demanded, shaking. He placed a hand to his head, which ached terribly.

"Apparently, fusing becomes more complicated when more personalities are involved," Piccolo managed to catch his breath and his composure, and he frowned. "I have four beings inside me; myself, Kami, Neru, and . . . my sire. You have the memories of all of us, which creates almost a shadow personality. It must be too much to assimilate all at once."

"So what does that mean?" Kioku grimaced. Images of vast carnage flooded through him with strength not felt since his childhood; it was a struggle to push them back. He sat with a hand over his eyes for some time, fighting.

Piccolo waited until Kioku controlled himself and looked up; when he did, his father's face was grave. "It seems I can only transfer one entity at a time, in order of their possession of this body. Naturally, the first was —"

"Piccolo Daimaou," Kioku whispered.

As he mouthed the words, a shiver of something ran through him, igniting him as though his very blood turned to fire. Yes, a voice hissed, Yes . . . it is I.

Kioku focussed all his energy on subduing the foreign presence, and shoving back a thread of fear. He knew Daimaou was dead and that Piccolo was his reincarnation, so to speak; in any event, Daimaou should not be an actual entity in Piccolo's mind. But still, he felt that tiny pinprick of terror. Perhaps the memories of Daimaou, free from the restraining force of Kami-sama, had somehow managed to form a new consciousness . . .

Piccolo seemed worried. "I feel strange," he murmured, "Daimaou's memories have left me. The evil that dominated me for so long has vanished, completely," then, his eyes widened.

Quickly! Piccolo barked, in control of his thought transference once more, We must complete the fusion, in case Daimaou has indeed managed to channel himself into you. Open your mind!

"STOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!"

The thick, familiar accent cut through their communication, startling Kioku so badly that his walls slammed down out of reflex, causing Piccolo to grunt in pain and withdraw. Kaio-sama was running toward them as fast as his round body could take him. The other senshi followed him in a ragged line, looking confused.

"What do you think you're doing? If Enma Dai-Ou discovers what you're doing, it will all be over! Oh dear, oh dear!" The Lord of the Worlds wrung his hands in front of his expansive belly. "You must stop the fusion this very instant!"

"Don't worry, old man," Piccolo snarled, "You're just imagining things."

"I most certainly am not!" Kaio-sama scowled, "You attempted to transfer yourself into Kioku's body! Had you accomplished this, Enma Dai-Ou would most definitely have noticed. And if that had happened, he would have taken back the entire offer! Kioku and Trunks would have to stay here, and the Earth would be doomed!" he paused long enough to gasp for breath, staring at Piccolo with accusatory venom in his face.

"You may think you're doing the right thing, but I assure you, you're wrong," Kaio-sama pointed at Kioku. "Anyone with even a worm's telepathic ability would be able to sense the extra presences inside this boy. Do you think Enma Dai-Ou would be unable to do so?"

Kioku turned to look at Piccolo, whose expression morphed from angry, to thoughtful, and at last, a mixture of resignation and something akin to chagrin. Or at least, as close as Piccolo ever got to self-deprecation, anyway. He jerked his chin in a short nod. "Very well. But what about Daimaou?"

Those fighters who had seen the ancient evil many years ago turned white; Kuririn stumbled backwards, and Goku's face went grim. Silently, they gazed at Kioku, who could feel cold sweat trickling down the back of his neck. "I think I can control him," he said, "I don't believe he is an actual entity; if he truly is Daimaou, he is a shadow; nothing more."

Goku, still uncharacteristically solemn, stepped forward to put a hand on Kioku's shoulder. "You okay, son?"

SON GOKU!

For the nth time that day, a mental voice stabbed its way through Kioku's mind. He stared at his father uncomprehendingly, for a cold, vicious hatred was flooding through him.

He fought me . . . he humiliated me . . . he killed me! You must kill him. WE must kill him. You must kill Son Goku!

Kioku knocked the concerned hand away, and actually began to power up when the rest of him caught up to what his subconscious was doing. "NO!" he shouted, shoving at the evil presence with all the force he could muster, mentally screaming a definite refusal.

And then there was pain. Sharp, piercing pain, slamming into Kioku from every angle, and he collapsed in a writhing heap. He could hear voices somewhere above him, but he could not discern to whom they belonged or what they were saying. The only thing he heard was Daimaou's command; the only thing he felt was the hurt when he resisted.

You are I, Daimaou insisted, I am you. We are one; together; we can defeat Son Goku. We can defeat everyone, and rule the world. We can bathe in the blood of these humans, clothe ourselves in their skins, to repay the wrong they have done us. They called us the Devil; for that, we will give them a swift journey to Hell!

Kioku didn't know how long he fought the voice, closing down as many walls as he could to trap it in the very back of his unconscious mind, away from anything it could control. Yet still it fought him, with such force that he wondered how Piccolo managed to become anything but the next Demon King forever . . .

"Kioku! Kioku, come back!"

Words, distinct, intelligible words, cut through both Daimaou's insistent demands and the haze of voices outside.

"Come on, Kioku, we've beaten this before. It's just like your nightmares, right?"

Nightmares . . . yes, he did have those occasionally. His nights, filled so often with terrifying dreams of death and bloodshed. Daimaou had tried to take over him even then, and Trunks had stopped him . . .

Trunks-kun!

"I used to make them go away. Remember? He can't get you while I'm here, okay? You tell him that!"

Light flooded into Kioku's mind, and he sat up with a gasp. "Trunks-kun!" he shouted, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. As his vision cleared, Kioku saw the warriors standing over him, various expressions of concern and fear smattered across their faces.

Something warm and sticky was trickling down his left wrist, and Kioku glanced at it. His fingers intertwined with Trunks', the demi-Saiyajin clasping Kioku's hand tightly. Kioku, in his panic, had squeezed back so hard that his talons dug into his friend's skin. Trunks' blood was causing the odd sensation.

Kioku pulled away, not wanting to hurt Trunks any more than he already had. "I'm sorry!"

"It's okay," Trunks stared at his arm, seemingly fascinated by the crimson liquid following the line of his muscles. "You were tearing at your head and screaming. I didn't want you to hurt yourself."

"Well, that was scary," Kuririn piped up. His face was pale. "Is that gonna happen every time you hear Daimaou's name now?"

Kioku shuddered, but the commanding voice didn't come. "It seems I've pushed him back for the time being," he said slowly. His heart still pounded in his chest, and it made breathing difficult. Beside him, Trunks tore a strip from his black tank top and wrapped it around his wrist, pulling the makeshift bandage tight with his teeth.

"This is an interesting development," Kaio-sama sounded extremely nervous, probably thinking of Enma Dai-Ou's reaction if he found out. "How are you going to keep Daimaou under control?"

Piccolo cut through the ensuing silence. "I have taught Kioku how to meditate to control the evil within him. And Kami suggests that I create a link between Kioku and myself. Just so that we can communicate, in case Kami's presence is needed to counter Daimaou's evil."

Kaio-sama pondered for a moment, and then agreed. The link was not difficult to establish, and Kioku felt a substantial amount of relief at the thought of having his father's help at his disposal.

"Before you become Guardian, you must purge the evil from yourself, as Kami did," Piccolo continued afterward. "It may take some months, but you should be able to remove Daimaou's presence. He will no doubt take physical form as he did many years ago, and you will have to destroy him. He must not be allowed to wreak havoc on the Earth again."

"I understand, Father," Kioku's strength had returned, and he was able to stand without getting dizzy.

"The Namekusejin are ready," Kaio-sama interjected, his antennae twitching. "You must travel to Neo Namekusei now."

The goodbyes were long and tearful; only Piccolo, Vegeta and Tenshinhan managed to remain stoic, and even they had to turn away as Porunga granted the wishes.

Only minutes remained; Kioku dashed forward and wrapped Goku in a tight embrace, startled to feel a warm wetness seeping through his gi top. Goku laughed a little self-consciously and scrubbed at his eyes with the back of one hand. Piccolo clasped Kioku's shoulder, gazing at him proudly.

Trunks stood apart from the others, watching his father with sorrow visible in his clear, blue eyes, and Kioku's heart ached for him. Though Vegeta had softened much toward his son over the years, Kioku knew the Saiyajin had not let down his guard enough to allow a hug.

Trunks and Kioku began to shimmer; Kioku tore himself away from his fathers, feeling as though some part of him was remaining with them. Just as everyone else started to fade, something snapped in Vegeta's face. The smaller warrior disappeared and reappeared in front of Trunks, gripped his son's right hand in his fist, then flung the other arm around Trunks' shoulders. "Tell her," Vegeta's voice was low and rough. "I never did. She needs to know."

"Father!" Trunks twisted his free hand in the back of Vegeta's shirt, all pretence of Saiyajin pride gone.

Vegeta drew back. "You . . . you look like her, brat," a look crossed his face that was almost gentle, and then it was gone.

And then . . . so was everyone else. Trunks and Kioku were alone, in a deserted city, and they were alive.

"Well," Trunks' eyes shimmered, but he didn't wipe them, allowing the next gust of wind to carry the tears away, sparkling in the air. "Let's go home."

"Yes, let's," Kioku let his hand fall to Trunks' shoulder, and the two friends took to the air.

They had braved famine, loneliness, battle, even death, and now, fifteen years later, they were going home.

---

By the time Trunks and Kioku reached Capsule Corp., night had fallen. In the absence of city lights, the sky was ablaze with stars, a glorious harmony of light. Kioku stopped in front of the door for a long while, staring agape at the sight.

"Do you realize it's been ten years since we've seen stars?" Kioku breathed. The perpetual orange clouds at Kaiou-sama's were pretty, but nothing compared to what he was seeing now.

Trunks just shook his head, his hair glowing silver in the moonlight. He never understood Kioku's obsession with nature's beauty, but at least he didn't make fun anymore. "Our families are inside, and you want to look at the sky?"

Kioku ducked away, feeling a little sheepish. "I know. Just ring the doorbell."

The demi-Saiyajin sucked in his breath, then pressed the white button over the intercom. "I don't know what to say," he muttered under his breath. "Oh well; too late now."

Soon, the speakers crackled and a familiar voice came through. Though he only knew Bulma's voice from scattered memories, as soon as Kioku heard it, everything came flooding back.

Kioku half-expected Bulma to demand who was waking her up so late, but that was not the case. She sounded groggy but alert, an edge of controlled alarm underlying her words. "Do you have wounded? Bring them around to the back and I'll meet you with a stretcher and a medical robot."

Trunks glanced at Kioku, who shrugged. It made sense that Bulma and ChiChi would channel their energies into helping whomever they could; neither of them was able to stand by and watch others suffer. "Mom?" Trunks swallowed hard, clearly nervous. "Mom, it's me. Trunks."

Bulma paused. When she spoke again, there was ice and venom in her tone. "I don't know who you are or why you think this is funny, but my son died ten years ago."

"No, Mom, it's really me!" Trunks' voice scaled upwards slightly. "Please come down?"

"I'll come down," Bulma snarled, "But it'll be with a shotgun to get you off my property. If you know what's good for you, you'll be gone by the time I get there."

They waited, and Kioku ran through several meditative techniques to quell his apprehension. Beside him, Trunks rocked slightly on his heels, obviously trying to look nonchalant and just as obviously failing.

Eventually, the door slid open, and Bulma stood in the doorway, bathed in the hall light. She wore a hastily donned dressing gown over a long nightgown, and hefted a heavy rifle in her slender arms. Kioku jumped back a little, not wanting to give her reason to fire. It wouldn't hurt them, of course, but it would be nice if they could skip any un-pleasantries.

"I hope you know how cruel a trick this is," Bulma grated out, squinting into the darkness. She looked the same as Kioku remembered her, save the care lines on her face. "Now, who are you, and what do you want?"

Trunks stepped forward and took the gun away, tossing it to the ground. "Mom, it really is me."

It is I, Kioku corrected, out of habit. Trunks ignored him.

"I don't know how to prove it to you," Trunks took another step; Kioku assumed he was trying to get into the light. "I mean, I was only four when I left home, so I don't remember much about you."

"Trunks is dead," Bulma repeated, but there was a waver in her tone that suggested she desperately wanted to believe him.

"I know. Kioku and I," Trunks gestured, and Kioku came closer, as well. "Were killed ten years ago by the jinzouningen. But the Namekusei Dragonballs brought us back."

Bulma's eyes raked over Kioku's form, then widened. Kioku sensed victory in Trunks' voice as his friend continued. "Come on, Mom. How many people do you know hang out with a Namekusejin? It's us."

Shock worked its way across Bulma's pretty features, and she stumbled backwards. Trunks took the opportunity to walk inside, where the light illuminated his face for the first time. Kioku felt his breath catch as he waited, though he wasn't sure why he felt so anxious.

Trunks smiled softly, and Bulma's hand flew to her mouth. Kioku watched as life breathed into the woman's worn, haggard face, lifting years of worry and sorrow and making her look beautiful once more. "Trunks-chan?" her voice was the barest whisper, stuck in her throat, and her dark eyes shimmered with tears.

He nodded, and Bulma let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. "My baby boy!" she cried out, lifting a hand and tracing her fingers over Trunks' face. Her expression was awestruck. "You've grown up so . . . so handsome!"

"I have a message for you," Trunks' voice grew gentle, and he took Bulma's hands in his. "From Father," Bulma gasped. "He said to tell you that he loves you, even though he never said it before."

This time the laughter made its way to tears completely, and Bulma collapsed into Trunks' waiting arms. For the first time in fifteen years, mother and son were able to embrace; for the first time ever, the mother found herself in the arms of her son.

Kioku watched the scene with a smile on his face and tears in his eyes, unprepared for the assault on his emotions. He'd known in advance that the reunion would be intense, but all the knowing in the world wasn't enough for the real thing. Trunks looked happy, in a way he hadn't since their childhood. A little self-consciously, Kioku wiped at his eyes.

"Kioku-chan . . .?"

Kioku froze. His mother's voice seemed to come to him through time and space, so long it had been since he'd heard it for real. Slowly, he turned around, his heart picking up pace. He half-expected it to be a dream, like the countless other times he'd imagined his mother's presence.

"Kioku-chan, is that you?" Son ChiChi stood at the base of the stairs, clutching the collar of her nightdress, ebony hair streaked with grey cascading in waves over her shoulders.

The years had left their mark on her. Gone was the sparkle in her eyes, and worry creases had replaced the smile lines on either side of her mouth and at the corners of her eyes. Her expression was haunted, the grief she'd felt clearly stamped upon her face.

But as she gazed at him, an invisible veil lifted from ChiChi's face, much as it had with Bulma. Youth returned to her tired and aging face, and her limbs appeared to regain their former strength. "Kioku-chan," she said again, "My baby's come home!"

A large rock seemed to find its place in Kioku's throat. "Yes, Mom," he choked out, his eyes stinging. "I've come back."

"Your arm grew back," ChiChi said, bizarrely, and then she and Kioku laughed at the absurdity of the statement.

Kioku didn't remember moving, but somehow he found himself in his mother's arms, the two of them clutching each other as though their very lives depended on it. ChiChi didn't ask what had happened or how Kioku was back, and didn't seem to care. Kioku buried his face in her hair, as her smell came flooding back to him.

"Mother," Kioku's words trembled, and he fought to steady them. "I've missed you so much!"

All ChiChi could say was, "My baby . . . my sweet baby," repeatedly. To Kioku, however, that was as eloquent as the most prepared speeches.

Eventually, ChiChi pulled back. "Oh my, aren't we being silly," she laughed, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve. "Come in, boys — excuse me, young men!" she tittered, having given way to giddiness. "You shouldn't stand outside in the cold, and Gohan will want to see you . . . Trunks is probably hungry, too; I'll make you some food . . ."

Kioku mouth quirked, and he let her babble on and bustle about the kitchen, content to be in her presence again. The faded and photographs and conjured memories didn't do his mother justice. ChiChi was just as fascinated, stopping more than once to touch his face and wrap him in another hug.

"The last time I saw you," ChiChi said at one point, holding their fingers together, "Your hands were so tiny! Now mine look like a child's next to yours."

Kioku only laughed. Next to them, Bulma had lost the ability to speak, merely tracing the outlines of Trunks' face with her gaze. Trunks regained his composure with the initial emotion out of the way; he was starting to look embarrassed, and Kioku grinned. Silly Saiyajin and their "thing" about sentimentality . . .

"Where's Gohan?" Kioku spoke up, once everyone's tears and shock had abated. "Is he out fighting?"

ChiChi jumped. "Oh my goodness! No, he's sleeping! Oh, what a terrible mother I am, to forget my son —"she leapt up from the sofa and took off up the stairs.

Bulma sat back and gazed at Trunks again; Kioku got the feeling she would never get tired of it, soaking him all in. "I see you still have my hair," she noted, playing with the long ponytail, "Though you have more than I ever did."

Trunks looked as though he wasn't sure what to think or say, and he fiddled with the loop of leather keeping his hair back. "Well, it grew so fast there really wasn't any point in cutting it, so . . ."

"You'll have to let me play with it," Bulma declared, and both she and Kioku chuckled at the alarm that crossed Trunks' face. "Oh, don't be silly; I'm not going to put bows or a French braid in it. I just want to fix the unevenness, that's all."

"I'm awfully attached to my hair, Mom," Trunks said warily, "And Father said you'd take shears to it if I wasn't careful."

"Your father knows me well," Bulma said wryly. "How is he?"

"Mellow, for him," Trunks smirked. "He's proud of you; I know that much."

Bulma's eyes clouded over for a brief moment. "I wish I could see him again."

"I dunno, he's gotten kinda' ugly," Trunks deadpanned, then burst out laughing when Bulma gave him an incredulous stare. "I'm kidding, Mom . . . don't worry."

Bulma didn't have the chance for a retort, because just then a loud, "WHAT?" sounded from above. Moments later, Gohan flew into the room and tackled Trunks and Kioku simultaneously, knocking them off the couch and onto a crumpled heap.

"I can't believe this!" Gohan sounded overjoyed, and happy tears flowed from his eyes. "You're back!"

Kioku couldn't believe how much Gohan had changed. Doing the math in his head, Kioku figured that Gohan was twenty-seven now, and he had more battle scars than any body should be capable of sustaining. It was as though he the scar tissue was what was holding him together.

But the most surprising thing was how much he resembled Goku, despite the cropped shag of hair. It was so uncanny, in fact, that Kioku felt pinpricks behind his eyelids, but he pushed them back.

It was some time before any of them spoke again, because Gohan started an impromptu wrestling match in lieu of figuring out just what he was trying to say. Kioku didn't mind; part of him wanted to show Gohan how strong he had become.

Eventually, they collapsed in a sweaty heap, bruised but grinning. Kioku rotated his shoulder to put it back in the socket, his mother wincing when it popped into place once more. Trunks fixed a dislocated jaw, and Gohan nursed a black eye.

"Our babies are back all right," ChiChi laughed, "You aren't home for five minutes and you're already sparring."

They spent a good hour catching up, enjoying each other's presences and basking in the togetherness. Kioku couldn't believe how at ease he felt in a place he hadn't seen for so long; he'd been in Other World for twice as long as he'd been alive, but it felt as though he and Trunks had never left. At one point, he commented upon this, and Trunks agreed. Once, Bulma asked about their bodies, child-form, in the graves, but Kioku explained that Enma Dai-Ou had foreseen and fixed that problem. When the two returned to life, their previous bodies disappeared. ChiChi thought that odd, but said she'd rather them alive any day.

"Oh!" Kioku exclaimed an hour afterward, startling the others. ChiChi and Bulma had gone to fix a meal for the two demi-Saiyajin, so the boys were alone. "Gohan, I have something for you."

Gohan lifted an eyebrow. "You brought something back from Other World?"

"No, not exactly," Kioku felt a smile creep over his face, and he silently informed Trunks of his intentions. His friend brightened, beaming in expectation. While Gohan peppered him with questions, Kioku closed his eyes and contacted Piccolo through their new link.

It didn't take long to explain what he had in mind, and Kioku sensed Piccolo's eagerness even through the veil he used to try to hide it. When everything was ready, Kioku opened his eyes. "Gohan," he bowed slightly, "Someone would like to talk to you."

Then, Piccolo took over his body. It was a strange sensation; time had no real meaning, and Kioku didn't know what was going on. He was aware that somewhere his mouth was moving, but knew he wasn't the one in control, and had no idea what Piccolo was saying or doing. It was like watching a movie with the volume on low and very bad reception.

Eventually, Kioku regained control, and when he did, Gohan attacked him with a ferocious bear hug. "Thank you," his brother's words sounded muffled, as he had buried his face in Kioku's shoulder. "I've missed Piccolo-san so much, and . . . I just can't tell you how much this means to me."

Kioku hugged him back, happy he could do something to make up for leaving for so long.

Once the food disappeared and everyone's disbelief finally faded, the conversation turned to matters of a more practical nature. Kioku learned that Gohan had been unable to defeat the jinzouningen, despite constantly improving in strength. The machines found it amusing to toy with him, and every battle left Gohan more and more frustrated.

"You won't have to worry about that anymore," Trunks declared firmly. All traces of his jocular demeanour vanished once the jinzouningen came up; his face became taut and hard, his eyes flinty. "Kioku and I have trained with Kaiou-sama and Father and all the fighters; we've gotten much stronger."

"I don't doubt that," Gohan shook his head. "But you've only fought the jinzouningen once. I've fought them every week at least, for the past eighteen years. You have no idea how powerful they are."

"Trunks-kun is right," Kioku spoke up. He usually preferred to let Trunks do the talking, but with such an important topic, he felt he needed to contribute. "Besides; we've learned a technique or two that should let us defeat the jinzouningen without serious difficulty."

Gohan looked sceptical, but Kioku supposed he couldn't blame him. After all, Gohan was the one with the battle scars. "And just what is that?"

Trunks merely favoured him with an enigmatic smile, and Kioku repressed the urge to roll his eyes. He doubted he'd ever understand Trunks' obsession with mystery and intrigue. To him, it was just a waste of time. "We've found a way to combine our energies so that we fight as one," Trunks explained without really explaining anything.

Gohan frowned, but Trunks refused to elaborate. Kioku figured his best friend would get annoyed if he spoiled the big secret, so he kept his mouth shut. Gohan finally gave up trying.

"All right, so you two can defeat them," Gohan crossed his arms, "But I'm coming along. I've fought them for most of my life; I can't just stand by and let someone else do the work for me. It wouldn't feel right."

"That's only fair," Kioku interjected, before Trunks could object. Trunks' reply was a nasty look and an incredulous mental comment, asking why Kioku thought he wouldn't want Gohan along. Kioku didn't reply.

"I think we've had enough business for one night," Bulma said, during a lull in the discussion. Her brow furrowed, and she chewed on one chipped, pink fingernail. "Every day I hear about the jinzouningen; just for one night I'd like to enjoy having you three together. Tomorrow you can go fight and make heroes of yourselves, but can't we have fun tonight?"

The fighters agreed, and spent the next few hours in frivolity and reminiscences. Finally, they decided to turn in some time between three and four a.m.; though Trunks, Kioku and Gohan were still wide-awake, the women were yawning quite profusely.

"We kept your room exactly as you left it," Bulma said, leading Trunks and Kioku up the stairs to the sleeping level. "Even your toys are still all over the floor; not that those matter anymore, but it's the thought that counts."

"I always hoped you would return one day," ChiChi said softly, reaching over and squeezing Kioku's hand. He smiled at her. "I knew it was silly, but some part of me refused to give up."

"Good thing, too," Kioku pointed out. "We always knew we'd come back when we finished our training, but we couldn't contact you in case something happened."

"That doesn't' matter anymore," Bulma chirped, "You're back; that's all that matters."

At this point, they reached Trunks and Kioku's old bedroom, and a long silence fell. It was not a reverent pause; in fact, it was quite the opposite. Kioku and Trunks gaped, Gohan snorted, and both ChiChi and Bulma stifled giggles.

"Oh my," Bulma let out a decidedly undignified titter, "We didn't think of this, did we, ChiChi!"

"No, indeed," the younger woman agreed, laughing.

Everyone stared at the tiny bed the two boys used to share; while adequate fifteen years prior, it was now hilariously short and nowhere near wide enough. Kioku and Trunks shared an amused glance, and Kioku wished Goku were here. He would have found the situation uproariously funny.

"At least you have lots of guest rooms," Gohan managed to sputter through the hand he had pressed to his mouth. "I can't believe we didn't think of that until now."

"Well boys," Bulma tried admirably to stop the snickers, but they still escaped through her pursed lips. "There are two guest rooms down the hall; you can each take one."

Upon hearing those words, an irrational fear spread through Kioku. An adult though he was, he had yet to sleep through a night where Trunks, Goku, or Piccolo was not with him. Now, with the presence of Daimaou fresh in his consciousness, he felt more afraid than ever.

But how to explain this to his mother? How to tell Gohan that he could face the jinzouningen tomorrow, but was still afraid of the dark?

Well, he amended, Not so much afraid of the dark as afraid of shadows. But that amounts to the same thing.

Kioku was still agonizing over whether he should tough it out for once when Trunks saved him the trouble. "Kioku and I have to share a room, Mom," the lavender-haired youth shrugged. "Kioku gets really bad nightmares if I'm not there. It's a long story, but Daimaou tries to take over him at night. If someone isn't there to connect with him, well . . . we don't know what will happen."

"Really?" ChiChi gave Kioku a speculative look, and he nodded, feeling somewhat sheepish. "My, things really haven't changed. My little boy still gets nightmares."

"He probably always will," Trunks added, slinging one arm over Kioku's shoulders, "At least, that's what Piccolo said. I don't know how I'm gonna explain this if I ever get married . . . 'Honey, this is Kioku. He has to sleep in the same room as us so he doesn't get nightmares, but it's okay. He's asexual'," at the last part, Trunks shot Kioku an impish smirk.

Blood rushed to Kioku's cheeks in a rare blush, but fortunately, no one said anything else. Bulma gave them her parents' old bedroom, the only room with two single beds in it; no one felt like moving furniture at such a late hour.

Long after Kioku and Trunks got themselves settled and Gohan went off to bed, ChiChi and Bulma stayed in the room, sitting on chairs at the edge of the beds. "I don't think I'll ever get used to having you back," ChiChi said softly, tracing one finger over Kioku's forehead. "It's a dream come true . . . literally!"

"I'm glad to be back, Mom," Kioku wanted to talk to her all night, but his eyelids were drooping. "I just wish Dad could see you. He talked about you all the time."

"Did he?" Kioku didn't miss the girlish lilt to his mother's voice as she said this, and he smiled.

"Yes, he did," Kioku yawned, unable to hold it back. ChiChi kissed him on the forehead and stood up.

"Good night, boys," she and Bulma said in unison, and they left.

Kioku rolled over, expecting to drift off immediately, but that didn't happen. Instead, he found himself staring at the wall while the clock on the mantel ticked obnoxiously. After the repetitive clicks marked off nearly an hour, Kioku was more than a little irritated.

Why can't I sleep? He knuckled his eyes, wanting nothing more than to rest. It had been a long day. I'm tired enough; I'm not overly excited or anything, either. What's going on?

"Kioku?"

Trunks' voice, soft and hesitant, startled Kioku from his thoughts. "What?"

"Can't sleep, either?"

"No. I don't know why, though."

Trunks sighed, and Kioku heard the blankets rustle as his friend turned to face him. In the darkness, Kioku barely made out Trunks' form, his chin propped up on his palm. "I think it's the beds."

"Pardon?" Kioku shifted a little to test the mattress, but it felt perfectly comfortable to him.

"No, really," Trunks insisted. "When was the last time we slept in an actual bed? Heck, when was the last time we slept under a roof? We've spent the past few years lying on the ground on sleeping pallets. No wonder we can't sleep."

Kioku thought it over, and realized Trunks was right. Now that he thought about it, the bed did feel strange. It was an unnecessary comfort, almost a frill, after living with bare essentials while they trained. "So what do we do?"

Trunks shrugged. "I don't know what you're going to do, but I'm going outside. It's going to take awhile to get used to this again."

"Good idea," Kioku picked up his blanket and pillow and followed Trunks downstairs, content again to be the follower in Trunks' plans. He wondered idly if their mothers would worry, but even if they did, he and Trunks wouldn't be far away.

"This is much better," Trunks remarked later, once they settled themselves outside. The two of them lay in the yard with their backs pressed together, pillows resting on separate tree roots. "It's weird, but this feels more at home to me than all the fluffy mattresses in Mom's house."

"I agree," almost instantly, Kioku felt slumber come upon him. "'Night, Trunks-kun."

"'Night, Kiku."

The use of the almost-forgotten pet name made Kioku smile, and he drifted off with the small grin still upon his lips.

The next morning just before dawn, a panicked ChiChi found the two young men sound asleep under the tree, blankets entangled around their legs. Kioku lay with his head pillowed on Trunks' arm, and ChiChi laughed to herself.

"Just like children," she murmured, before bending over to fix the twisted sheets. Her brow furrowed for an instant as she regarded them. "They've seen so much. How can they ever adjust?"

No one answered her, and her question was borne away by the early morning breeze. With a sigh, ChiChi turned and went back into the house. She knew her babies would fight the jinzouningen today no matter what, and the longer they slept the better . . .

---

A/N: At least you can't complain that I left for a long time and then came back with a pitifully short chapter! I made it long on purpose, as an apology for those die-hards who haven't given up in disgust. If there are any of you left.

Any overly descriptive ... um ... descriptions of Trunks and/or his body and/or him bleeding and/or his apparel and/or his smirk are fanservice for my little sister, known to many of you as a chronic Trunksophile. I am not fond of Trunks myself, so do not think I write him as sexy for my own benefit. I just think it's funny to watch Mira's eyes roll back in her head when I read to her. snicker

Oh, and I wanted to add this, as I'll probably get comments if I don't: Trunks and Kioku are not gay. Kioku isn't anything — I decided I wasn't going to get into the whole "But-Piccolo-was-sent-to-Earth-before-the-cataclysm-so-he-wasn't-born-of-Guru-and-he-had-two-parents-so-he's-probably-a-sexual-being" argument in this story. Too complicated. If Trunks and Kioku seem to act gay to my readers, it's because I believe that when two friends go through as much as they have together, their friendship transcends normal boundaries. Look at the other Z-senshi: Kuririn and Goku embrace more than ChiChi and Goku do. Look at Merry and Pippin, or Frodo and Sam, of Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. Same thing here. Trunks and Kioku are very, very, very close, but they never will "get together" in that sense. I don't think it adds anything to the story. If it still bothers you, then I don't know what to tell you.

Watches as most of the readers sigh in relief, and a small portion in disappointment...

That's it for now! While I don't know how long the next chapter will take, I can certainly promise that it won't be as long as this one. Even if I am starting back to Uni on Thursday, I do intend to finish this. I love mah Kioku too much to leave him dangling.