8:30 p.m. Saturday. Western Train Station. Platform A

The train pulled in slowly at the station. A thin veil of smoke rose from it's wheels, making some of the people standing close by the white safety lines cough. They drew their jackets and possessions closer about them, peering cautiously at the incoming train's markings. WX98-A from Shijoku District.

Coughing demurely into his handkerchief, the young man's companion commented wryly on trains, adding a slight joke about noisome station aromas. Drawing the flaps of his worn jacket closer about him for warmth, he darted several looks up and down the platform, taking in all the people crowded into the station. Sardined, he hmphed once, then settled into a pose of cool detachment, keeping the expression on his face clear and half awake. His young friend smiled and shook his head.

He too was looking at the people gathered about the platform. So many of them. It was overwhelmingly human. He loved it. Smiling, though he could not have been able to tell you why, he turned his gaze to the smoking, metallic dragon that was WX98-A from Shijoku District, waiting.

It wouldn't be long before she'd emerge. She'd probably have to battle her way out from the back. She liked to travel cheap. She always said she preferred it because the people who travelled in the third class wagons were more human. Talkative. Like her.

The young man shifted a little where he stood, digging his hands into his coat pockets. Maybe it would take her a bit longer to emerge. He flexed his fingers inside his pockets, unaware that he did so. He chuckled as his restlessness turned up a crumpled bag of forgotten station peanuts. Munching on one, he offered the few left, the ones full of all the salt that accumulates at the bottom of salted snacks, to his companion, who carefully fished the peanuts out, and then licked the salt off the wrapper. Slowly.

A whistle blew, and WX97-B from Tokyo headed towards Okado thundered by the opposite tracks. Most heads turned towards the commotion. The young man gazed in marvel at the people he could glimpse moving inside the train. A heartbeat look. Someone was taking down a bag. Then it was gone, whistling into the dark tunnel that led to Okado.

The slight rustling presence of those we love sounded close by then, and the young man turned to watch the descending passengers. Sure enough, there she was. Long, dark hair drawn in a messy ponytail. She was wearing a frayed, worn sweater and dusty jeans. She laughed a bit at a joke an old man wearing and Ise Shrine cap said, her deep, dark eyes, so much like her father's, twinkling. Her laughter sounded like the tinkling of many silvery bells to the young mans ears. He found himself smiling.

"Hey! Over here!"

A smile crossed her lips the moment she heard his voice, rising strong and clear over the bustle of the platform. Dropping her big brown travelling bag, she waved in their direction, a huge smile on her face. It was only when she saw the pained, pitying expressions in the faces of both the men she waved at that she turned around and discovered that she had dropped her bag on an old lady's foot. Smiling sheepishly, she bent down to remove the bag, bowing and gomen nasaing all over herself. The young man smiled at the sight, and there was just a glint of maliciousness in his eyes.

"Well," she said, turning, bag firmly in hand, "I'm back!"
 
 

9:17 p.m. Saturday. Interstate 109. 1976 Toyota Corolla

The radio was blasting forth about no one giving you a better deal than McInerney Ford, fading into the background to become an annoying, all present hum of static. Giving one derisive humph, Yamucha flipped at the dials, going over the whole package of stations and sounds several times before he settled on a soft rock station. He was about to flip the dial again when a voice beside him stopped him in mid action.

"Oh, I like this song."

Shrugging, he left the radio alone, turning his attention once again to the long, dark stretch of concrete that was Interstate 109 headed towards the Western Capital.

"So. How was your trip?"

"Oh, just fine. It was a very beautiful country. I learned how to make bead necklaces. Here. Look at the one I'm wearing."

Yamucha whistled in approval. "That's cute."

"Can I see?"

Leaning forward from the soothing darkness of the back seat, Trunks looked at the delicate bead necklace lying around her neck. He thought it looked very pretty on her, the lights from the street posts reflecting on the bright blue and black beads. She turned them over slowly with her fingers, pleased with it. Trunks shook his head, a smile on his lips. Trust her to think about food first. Just like her grandfather.

"Oi, Pan," he joked, "think about something else."

Pan smiled.
 
 

9:26 p.m. Saturday. A window table. McDonalds

"Are you going to eat that?"

"Be my guest."

"Will do."

Trunks unwrapped his Double Cheeseburger slowly, listening idly as Pan and Yamucha battled over the last few fries. He lifted the bun and removed the pickles. Wrapping them carefully in a napkin, he placed them on his tray. Then laughed as Pan quickly picked them up. Uncovering his coffee, he added milk, then set it beside him to cool.

Outside, the cars thundered by, heading to a thousand places, heading no farther than the eyes reach. Becoming strips of colour running across the darkness of the night. Inside the McDonalds, a slow love song played. Pan made a wry face at it.

"Yuck. That's a disgusting remake of that song. You remember that song, Trunks? They played it at the Tenkaishi Budokai when ojiisan flew off with that weird kid, Obu. You remember it, right?"

Trunks took a tentative sip at his coffee. "Can't say that I do."

"You're hopeless."

Trunks looked at Pan then. At her twinkling dark eyes. And it suddenly felt as if a cold wind were blowing right through him. He shifted in his seat. Her eyes were too bright. Her smile too radiant.

"If no one wants this fry, I'm claiming it."

Blinking, Trunks watched, dumbfounded, as Yamucha picked up the last of the fries and popped it into his mouth. He felt very foolish suddenly, staring at that. A slight blush came to his cheeks, and he sipped absentmindedly at his coffee, letting his hair hang down over his eyes.

Pan sighed. "Trunks. You are hopeless."
 
 

10:18 p.m. Saturday. Country Road 398. 1976 Toyota Corolla

"I can't believe only you two came to pick me up."

"Well, your otousan's a very busy man, Pan chan."

"Pan. Just Pan. Chan's for cute bimbos."

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry 'bout that."

Yamucha tapped aimlessly at the steering wheel, not really following the beat of the song that was playing on the car's radio, but more like verating himself for a really crappie commentary. Which he considered himself to have just made.

Sighing, he decided to stick to driving in a straight line. He regretted not having brought Puarl along. Women and him just didn't match.

Permitting himself a short glance at Pan, he could see her lower lip had thinned in quiet disappointment. He let his mind occupy itself on watching the cold street lights, moving past him and behind him, over and over, in a brilliant flash of orange and yellow, so as not to think too deeply about what Pan's action meant. He had no real idea what it felt like to have parents. He had been without them for most of his life. But if he could make an educated guess on parents by the look on Pan's face, well, he wasn't all that sure if not having any had really been all that bad.

From his comfortable crook in the back seat, Trunks observed Pan's reaction. He watched, trance like, as the lights from outside highlighted her dark hair to a burning auburn. Images came unbidden to him. Images of pain, terrible pain, as he looked up through a haze of dust and grime to see his father, bloodied and battered, telling him something. His mother's name, his own. Saying goodbye. His father's hair had been a luminous halo above him, rendered all the more bright and blinding by the light of that day's fierce sun.

He gazed at Pan's hair now, and let his cheek rest against the coolness of the Toyota's upholstery. Reaching up, he removed the glasses he wore almost every day now. Maybe he could have ignored them when he was still 28. But not now. He needed them now. He was, after all, half human. The beatings of a lifetime had slowly begun to take their toll. He sighed. The glasses weren't really that bad. They just weighted a little too much at times.

Setting them beside him on the seat, he let his eyes close slowly. A long drive was still before them. He would just take a short nap. He yawned, sleep already stealing over him. "Don't worry about Gohan, Pan," he murmured, feeling the peace of sleep wash over him, pulling him down, taking him to a dark, safe place. He murmured one last word before he surrendered himself to that darkness.

"Pan."
 
 

12:45 p.m. Saturday. The Western Capital House Son

"...wouldn't believe me," Yamucha was saying, white smoke billowing about him in the crisp, night air. His face, worn and carefree, was lighted by a cigarette he held between his fingers. Leaning against the car, he flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette on the view mirror. His laugh was like brass bells. It reached Trunks subsconcious, teasing at the back of his mind, pulling him out of the darkness, and, finally, waking him. He groaned softly. Then blushed sheepishly.

"Oh. I slept through the whole thing."

"Sure did, kid." Yamucha held out one hand to him, pulling him unceremoniously from the car. Straightening, Trunks settled the glasses on his nose once more and smiled at him.

"Your hair's getting much too long, Yamucha."

Yamucha gave a short, amused laugh. "Not so. It's only at my waist, kid."

"Heh. How'd she take it?"

"Oh, fine. Fine. Hit me over the head with her bag."

Trunks grinned as Yamucha massaged the spot, grimacing good naturedly. "Hm. How graceful," he commented.

"Yep. Just like her grandpa. You going in?"

The smile faded from Trunks' lips, and he turned to watch the light from House Son as it spilled, golden and slightly surreal, onto the concrete. "You?"

"Nah. Family thing."

"You're almost family, Yamucha."

Yamucha shrugged. "Maybe." Flicking the cigarette to the floor, he crushed it under his boot. He watched for a while as it gave out its last breaths of billowing grey smoke. He glanced over at the windows of House Son. Pan was taking out a salad from the refrigerator.

"You going in?"

"No..."

Yamucha gazed at Trunks for a while. The young man was looking at House Son with an expression he could not fathom. For a while, with his winter sweaters, comfortably worn and homey, but perfectly co-ordinated, and his glasses, Trunks looked like a total stranger to him. Yamucha's eyes narrowed his eyes slightly. Change had always been so surprising for him.

But then again, he himself had changed much. He was no longer the shy bumbler of his youth. Life had mellowed him so much. He had lost Bulma to this boy's father. His once handsome face had become scarred and lined with worry. His hair, at one time wavy, hung in a straight, grey cascade, held at the nape of his neck by a crude thong. No. He was as much as stranger to himself as Trunks was.

"Well. I'm gonna go pick up Puarl. See ya tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"Well then, see ya around, kid."

Trunks heard the Toyota's door slam shut, heard Yamucha circle once in the pavement then drive off into the darkness. The headlights from the car illuminated House Son for an instant, Trunks' shadow leaping up from the floor and stretching, long and sharp, towards its walls. Trunks watched it settle back into the ground before him. He turned slowly to watch Yamucha's taillights disappear into the night.

"Yes..."
 
 

8:30 a.m. Sunday. House Son's Kitchen

"Oh no. You don't say. But she loved him. Why did she do it?"

From her corner of the kitchen, Videl held up the Fashion Plates book she had been flipping through. She pointed at a lacy number of pink tulle. Pan shook her head in horror and held up three fingers. Videl flipped to page three and looked up, horror stricken. But Pan was once again talking through the phone.

"That happens. Sometimes, one thinks it's truly love one feels. And then, flat, girl. It was the wrong deal. Mhm hm. Yeah. Oh, absolutely. That's what happened to Kasharo. You remember her? Mhm hm. Her. Poor thing. Mhm hm. Mhm HM."

Videl held up the book to page five, a hopeful expression on her face. Pan waved the image away.

"Oh, not at all. I thought they were perfect for each other. Mhm hm. Oh, yes. Definitely. You can never tell for sure. No. You can't. Never ever. It's all a game of chance. ...what? Me? Oh no. Why would I fall in love? Nah. It's a risky thing, that. One never knows, girl. One never knows."
 
 

9:45 a.m. Sunday. Capsule Corporation Headquarters

"Okaaasan! The phone's ringing!"

"Oh dear. I'm tangled up in this Air Purifier W34R-7Y right now, Trunks kun. Be a dear, ne?"

Setting down his cutting knife carefully, so as not to disarrange his finely chopped tomatoes, Trunks whipped his hands on the apron he had tied on. He stepped precariously around the mess of wires his mother had lying around the living room, smiling at her. Going over to the still ringing phone, he picked it up.

"Moshi moshi, Capsule Corporation. How may I--? Oh, hi! How are you?" He laughed at the answer, and Bulma lifted her head from the sea of technology she was voluntarily drowning in.

"Who is it, Trunks?"

Placing one hand over the receiver, he smiled warmly. Pan, he mouthed, then turned his attention back to the phone.

Bulma watched for a while as he nodded and hai-ed and bowed and mhm hmed throughout the first minutes of the conversation. He looked quite funny, standing there, framed by the kitchen counter. He was wearing a dirty old apron and house slippers. The dinner he was preparing lay out on the cutting boards, awaiting his return. His voice was clear and strong, as he laughed with the conversation of a girl on the other end of the phone. Bulma smiled.

"Well, I don't know Pan. I've got a Tofu dish waiting for me right now. What? Oh, of course. Feel free to come over, then." He laughed again. "Iie, iie. I'm making it myself. Oh? Is that so? Well, wait till you taste it. Ah hah. Oh, soudesu ka?! Heh. No." He grinned. "No tamago. Promise. No eggs this time" Pause. "The time...? Well. About ten. Is that--? O.K. then. See ya. Hai. You too. Jaa."

"Coming over for dinner?" Bulma called, as Trunks replaced the receiver and turned back to the counter. Trunks replied with a simple hai, and Bulma nodded. "Good."

Smiling, Trunks turned back to his cutting board. He began to hum as he sliced at the last of the tomatoes.

From her bed of wires, Bulma looked at him quizzically.
 
 

12:30 a.m. Sunday. Lake Eora Park. Western Capital Business District

"Oh, it's cold! At last!"

"That's something silly to say, Trunks. I'm freezing my nose off."

"But it's so quiet and crispy and. And cold!"

Pan shook her head. "You're hopeless. Oh, look, squirrels! Aren't they kawaii? I wish we could feed them."

"We brought nothing with us."

Pan hung her head, biting her lip in disappointment. "Oh yeah..." But she brightened immediately. "You're a good cook."

"Thanks..."

"You're not going to get cocky on me now, right? 'cause it doesn't suit you."

Trunks rubbed at the nape of his neck and half bowed as he walked. "Gomen..."

"And don't apologize."

Trunks laughed. It seemed half the people he knew were always telling him that. But none were as enthusiastic about it as Pan. She had made getting him to stop constantly blushing and apologizing into her Holy Quest. And that she had gained no considerable ground in all of her years of struggle didn't seem to bother her in the least. She smiled at him now, fully aware that he would go right on apologizing for the rest of the day.

"There. Now you look nice. Smiling. You know, those glasses make you look good."

"Really? I don't quite think so."

"The point being?" Laughing, Pan linked her arm around Trunks' and leaned her head against his shoulder. Her laughter became little puffs of white smoke, curling around her hair and cheeks. She looked very pretty, and her arm felt warm against his own. Trunks blushed a little, and was glad for the slight colour the cold air gave him to mask it. Coughing slightly, he watched the squirrels run in the path before them.

"They are cute," he murmured.

"Oh hai, hai. Ne, Trunks kun, would you like some ice cream?"

"Pan, we didn't bring any money, remember?"

"Oh. Drats. I keep forgetting." She remained quiet for a while, just leaning on his arm, her long dark hair floating slightly in the morning breeze.

"That looks good."

Pan looked up at the sound of Trunks' voice. "Hm?"

"Your hair. It looks nice long."

Pan gazed at Trunks in silence. He was smiling wistfully at her, his eyes clear blue, strangely liquid and deep. She found it hard to look away. And it confused her. "Trunks?"

He started, blinking rapidly. He laughed, feeling very sheepish, and rubbed the back of his head. "Oh. Gomen, gomen..."

Pan smiled, glad to see Trunks acting like himself again. "It's nothing, silly. Arigato. I like it, too. Short was nice, but this is more fun."

"Yes..."

They walked in silence for a while then, feeling the cool breeze on their cheeks, listening idly to the dull crunch of snow under their boots.

"Ne, Trunks?"

"Yeah...?"

"Want to sit down?"

Leaning back on his shoulders, Trunks sighed, regaling in the feel of stretching out his somewhat stiffened body. Beside him, Pan spread her arms wide and dropped gracelessly onto the grass. Trunks smiled as she made a big show of stretching and sighing and getting comfortable.

"This feels good," she breathed. Trunks closed his eyes, nodding in silent approval.

"Look, you can see the Capsule Corporation Tower from here."

Looking in the direction Pan pointed, Trunks sighed. He folded his hands beneath his head and leaned back. The clouds were fluffy stallions scampering above him, wild and free. He tried not too look in the direction of the glass encased, mammoth structure that was both his workplace and prison. Beside him, Pan fidgeted in uncomfortable realization of what she had just said.

"Oh. Gomen nasai, Trunks kun."

Trunks shrugged to himself, his gaze fixed on the distant clouds. "It's all right. It's not your fault."

"But..."

"Don't worry about it."

He heard Pan sigh. With a grunt, she flipped over onto her side and looked at him, her eyes narrowing into bright slits of thoughtful speculation.

"Why?" she asked suddenly.

Trunks blinked at her strange question. "What?"

"Why don't you tell your okaasan that you don't like being the Capsule Corporation president?"

Trunks frowned slightly and turned his face away, looking up into the sky again. "Because..."

Pan leaned forward, the weight of her eyes slightly unnerving. "Because?" she prompted.

"I can't let 'kaasan down. She's always expected me to inherit the Corporation, she trusts no one else with it. And besides, what else could I do?"

Pan frowned at the defeat in Trunks' voice. "You can fight," she said hotly. But Trunks only gave her a derisive look, suddenly reminding her very much of his father, Vejiita.

"Fight?" he said. "Ku. Fight what?"

He watched as the determination in Pan's eyes faded out slowly with his words. "Well..." she mouthed weakly. Trunks closed his eyes, turning his face away again.

"This are no longer the days for fighting, Pan," he said softly. "That's over. The world is at peace now. They have no need for fighters. No need for the kind of people we once were."

Frowning, Pan lifted herself up on her shoulder. "Yamero, Trunks. Stop that."

Turning his gaze towards her, he let his eyes narrow, letting all of his frustrations surface for her to view. She looked into his eyes for a while, her brows knitting together, then, sighing, she turned away. Seeing the saddened look in her eyes, Trunks regretted having done that. "Gomen nasai," he murmured.

"No. You're right, Trunks, as much as I'd like to deny it. Still, if being the Corporation president makes you sad, you should give it up."

"For what?"

Before he could react, Pan had leaned closer to him, taking his glasses off in one swift movement. His hand reached for them reflexively, but then he saw the look in Pan's face. He swallowed. Her eyes were so bright, deep and enthralling. Like an ocean. Her lips were set in a thin line, and he found himself blushing. She probably found him lacking. It was obvious. She was probably--

His eyes grew wide as she leaned down and touched her lips to his. He felt a slight warmth go up and down his spine. He could feel his body tighten at her touch. He tried to stammer, struggling to get up. Still, he made no moves to really get away. He suddenly found that he had been somehow waiting for this very moment. He let his eyelids drop drowsily, his arms rising to encircle her back, leaning into the kiss--

"Pan," he breathed. "Yamada... we can't."

Drawing back, Pan let her head fall on her chest. She raised one hand and ran it through her hair, bringing it down to the nape of her neck. For a moment, it seemed as if her lips were trembling. But before he could ask anything, she turned away.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

Trunks gasped, sitting up. "Pan..? You're crying..."

Pan shook her head. "No," she said hotly. "I'm fine. I don't know why I did that."

Getting up, she dug her hands into her coats pockets. "Let's go."

"But..." Trunks protested weakly.

"Come on."

Without looking back, Pan began to walk away from him, her long hair swaying slightly in the breeze, a few tendrils floating freely. He raised one useless hand, trying to tell her to wait, but she just kept on walking, her boots heavy and dull on the snow.

Standing up, Trunks stooped down to pick up his glasses. He looked at them for a while. They looked small. Hard and cold. Turning them over in his mind, he thought about the Capsule Corporation, and about pan. Pan who was so warm, who understood his need for something more than an office life and enough money to have anything he wanted. Pan, who wished different things for her life other than what most people expected from her.

"Pan, wait!"

But she did not turn around. "let's go, Trunks. It's cold."

Sighing, Trunks put his glasses back on. Looking back, he gazed at the gleaming Capsule Corporation Tower, rising majestically above the other city skyscrapers. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard to leave that place. Or perhaps he wouldn't need to leave.

Shaking his head, he turned to walk after Pan. Unaware that he did so, his fingers reached up to touch his lips. Wondering.

Pan.
 
 
 
 

> top

> mail

© December 1996 Team Bonet. Dragon Ball Z is copyright © 1986 Akira Toriyama and Jump Comics. Thank you for reading.