Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ or any of the characters associated with the manga, anime, or movies.

HOPE

Time slowed to a crawl, and then stopped. He wondered vaguely if somewhere, in an alternative dimension, Guldo had taken a breath.

Now why would he be thinking of Guldo at a time like this?

He wanted to laugh, but somehow his breath had gotten caught in his lungs, like he was trapped in an inhale. But he didn't feel panicked, or suffocated; he didn't feel that desperate need to exhale the way he expected to. The air just settled in his lungs comfortably, taking up residence there.

When time started moving again, he would breathe.

Bulma had been talking about other universes just the previous morning. That was where the thought had come from. The idea had popped into her head overnight and taken hold of her in a compulsive way. She would build a time machine, and he would go back to the past to try to change their present.

He didn't know how he was supposed to change anything. And wasn't he trying to, anyway, right now? Wasn't he out here, in the middle of this ruined city, trying to fucking change something? But he knew what she aimed to change specifically. He knew that wasn't something that he could fix.

And, he knew, as the air began to shift in his lungs, that he couldn't fix this either.

The thought came to him with perfect clarity, and, surprising even himself, he accepted the realization with something akin to contentment. Not that he was looking to die, of course. If there was an alternative, he would jump on it. But he knew there wasn't, and if he was being totally honest with himself, he'd known that before he'd come out to this godforsaken town.

When the androids appeared suddenly, without warning, his first thought was that he should have left this planet to rot. He'd spent three years here, half-assing his way through training, trying to become a Super Saiyan, but feeling disgustingly and uncharacteristically unmotivated. Kakarot had been the one to fulfill the legend and he was forced to take the backseat to that idiotic third-class warrior, who was apparently mis-ranked. He had accomplished nothing here in that time, so why had he stayed?

Well, he knew why.

And everyone's hopes – even his – had rested on Kakarot to be their saviour, as per usual, when the Red Ribbon Army resurfaced with the deadliest weapons to date.

It was ironic that it would ultimately be Kakarot's heart that failed him, when his unconditional love and compassion was what made him who he was.

And so how was he supposed to change things, using Bulma's hypothetical time machine, when it was a disease that took Kakarot? He wasn't a doctor or even a scientist. The technology didn't exist yet to develop a cure. She was grasping at straws. She was looking at the world around her, caving in on itself, and refused to give up hope. Bulma wasn't a fighter, but she was brilliant, and she was determined to use her own strengths to do something. She was just… getting ahead of herself.

His lungs started to push the air upwards, back out into the world.

He had never thought of himself as a hero before. No, he was definitely a villain: destroying civilizations to move their home into the planet trade, disintegrating entire worlds, killing people mercilessly, guiltlessly. Enjoying it, in fact. He came to this mudball with every intention of wiping it out entirely, and he wouldn't have thought twice about doing it. No, he was no hero.

And even now, as he stood in the drizzle, his muscles tensing at an achingly slow pace, his lungs expelling his breath, he wasn't a hero. He was just some idiot who couldn't sit around waiting anymore, who had crept out in the early morning before she could stop him, who refused to go down without a fight. He was fighting a fruitless fight that he had sought out for no reason. Battle was in his blood, and his bloodlust pounded in his head.

Time snapped back into place. His breath released. His body turned to the left, his neck craning over his shoulder towards the android that he knew was there, the blonde one, the weaker one but the better fighter of the two. She was so impossibly fast. He didn't see the ki blast, only felt it as it pierced his chest. Fatal.

He had stayed for Bulma, in the end. There was something about her. She was a bundle of contradictions but somehow made perfect sense to him. She shouldn't be so confident and outspoken because she didn't have the strength to match her words, but she was. Of course she was. She shouldn't show him compassion and mercy after he murdered half her friends, threatened her life multiple times, and terrified her on Namek, but she did. Of course she did. She shouldn't believe that he could be a better person when he'd known nothing but death and destruction, but she did. Of course she did.

She was wrong, though, about him. He could never be the person she wanted him to be. He could never be a husband, or a father, or settle down into a peaceful routine. Hell, here he was, pointlessly collapsing to the ground, facing enemies that far out-leagued him just because he was restless.

And Trunks.

He didn't even know what to think about Trunks. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined he'd ever have a child. He hated that child before he was even born, resented how it meant he'd forever be tied to this awful place, to that woman. Sure, she was unlike anyone he'd ever met before, she was intoxicating, but he wasn't made to settle down. He wasn't made to be a family man. He was a Saiyan warrior. But now, even if he left – and he certainly intended to – there would always be a piece of him here. Another Saiyan. His family. Despite this, he wanted nothing to do with the brat. But then Trunks had looked at him with his mother's eyes and somehow his feelings had been immediately changed.

"Another one bites the dust," Android 18 commented casually to her brother as his face hit the dirt.

He was fading. He could feel it. His lungs tried but there was no energy left to draw another breath. His mind was swimming, his vision darkening. His chest felt hot and it stung somewhat. But these were vague understandings.

What was clear to him was that Bulma and Trunks would be okay. They would make it. He wasn't sure how he knew this with such confidence, as his heart stopped beating, but he did. Trunks was his son, after all: half-Saiyan; strong. But he was also Bulma's son: brilliant; compassionate.

Bulma had put her stock in the wrong Saiyan prince. Vegeta wasn't the one who could help them. Trunks was hope.