Trunks checked again: no breathing, no pulse--nothing. It hadn't worked. Why had he been so sure that it would? He looked up from the body, expression tortured, only able to meet Gohan's eyes for a moment before looking away, but Gohan understood. Shameful as it seemed to admit it, he hadn't held out much hope that Vegeta would be able to save his brother.

'He's Vegeta, for kami's sake, all he's ever done is kill. For all we know, he killed Goten on purpose just as a cheap shot at father. He doesn't know the pain of loss; he knows anger, he knows rage, but he doesn't know pain. He's never known heartache because he doesn't have a heart. We should have killed him, should have killed him so many times, but father kept insisting on mercy. Otousan, if ever I were to question anything you've done, it's that. How could you see honor in this fiend?'

The anger and frustration boiled in Gohan's blood, rage building upon itself until he might have done himself and the planet serious harm but for the fact he was so weak. He lay back on the ground, swallowing his anger. The rage would find an outlet, it always did; but for now it would have to wait.

Vegeta, some distance away, was struggling with his own frustrations.

'It didn't work. All that energy, everything I could spare, and it didn't work. What went wrong? For the love of hell, it even worked for Takira! She has barely a fraction of my power, yet she succeeded, and I--I failed. Again. Always. Always!!' He could feel them coming for him, to take him back, to punish him for slipping away. Perhaps they already had. He cast a last desperate glance toward his son, but Trunks was busy with Goten. Choking on his pain, Vegeta, head held high, forcing himself to maintain his princely bearing, surrendered his soul to Hell once again.

Azher stepped forward awkwardly, craning his head toward Trunks.

"Is there anything we can do?" Trunks heaved a watery sigh.

"We need to get these three to the ship. There's a long trip ahead."

"Where is your ship?" Trunks pointed and Azher motioned to the other two Roc. He and Malak steadied Gohan, and the three flew slowly toward the vessel. Dolmit carried Takira and Trunks, Goten. The dead and wounded were laid carefully inside.

"Are you sure you must make the journey now?" Dolmit asked. Trunks nodded.

"We'll need provisions, though. I hate to impose--"

"Not an imposition, warrior," Malak said gruffly. "Let's see what we can scare up."

A quick scouting mission yielded a great deal of water and dehydrated food still in the pod that had brought Takira. Some more was unearthed from the rubble of Degradu's former headquarters.

"That should be enough," Trunks said as they stowed it away. "We won't be training, so it's not like we need to eat that much." The next order of business was to carefully place Goten's body in the regen. tank, telling the computer to stop and drain only when directed to do so. Gohan and Takira were strapped into sick beds, despite Gohan's protests. When the preparations were at last complete, the Roc stood at attention to see the craft off. Azher served as spokesman for the group, addressing Trunks.

"You are a worthy warrior, it has been an honor to fight with you. We thank you for your help; it may have more far-reaching effects than you know. Perhaps on some distant day we will meet again." Trunks nodded solemnly and closed the hatch. He set the autopilot, and sat watching the console as the craft began the violent shaking that signaled take-off. Glowing numbers rippled across the screens, casting eerie reflections in Trunks' glassy eyes. Even the Saiyan lust for victory had died in him. Victory was no longer sweet. A million images flitted through his dulled mind, moving too quickly for him to analyze, to slowly to ignore.

A sharp bleep from the computer shattered his reverie: second stage autopilot activated. They were out of Abeter's atmosphere and heading home. 'How are we going to tell them? How can I explain--it's going to look like Takira's fault. Hers or mine; I'm the one who insisted on this trip, after all. If it comes to laying blame for this, I'll take it. It's the least I can do--' Trunks wandered to the room that housed the regen. tank; Goten floated peacefully in the thick fluid, no tubes or wires connecting him. His clothes lay neatly folded beside the tank, as though waiting for him to step out and put them on. Shutting the airlock behind him, Trunks sank to the floor and cried.

* * * * *

Takira rolled her head from side to side, moaning softly. She appeared to be working her way towards consciousness again, Gohan noted, though this was the third time it had looked like she might awaken. Twice she'd sunk back into whatever twilight realm possessed her; this time, however, her eyes opened and focused uncertainly on Gohan.

"What--happened?" she asked, her voice a bare whisper.

"We're going home. Denatu's dead. So is Goten." She closed her eyes an Gohan watched a lone tear squeeze out one corner to trail down her pale filthy face.

"I'm--sorry, Gohan." Gohan said nothing. 'I'm sorry too, Takira, but it doesn't really help, does it? It doesn't bring him back.' He could feel the bitterness rising again and hastily pushed it to the back of his mind. 'Now now.' Relaxing back in bed, he prayed for his brother's soul and let the blessed numbness of sleep overtake him.

* * * * *

The ship disappeared from view, and Azher turned to the others, the prospect of their next challenge weighing heavily on his weary mind.

"Well, Malak, now that that's over with, perhaps you'd care to explain yourself a bit more thoroughly?" Malak briefly described the situation for them, leaving out details where he saw fit.

"We'd better set up communication with Geo, then," Azher sighed. "If Deoge is dead, we'll have three different regimes vying for power out there, and it could get very ugly."

"It already is," Malak commented, leading the way to Takira's ship. Dolmit went in first.

"What in the hell happened to the communications board? It looks like someone took a sledgehammer to it."

"A fist, more likely," Azher said. "Too bad. Malak, where's your ship?"

Malak's tiny pod was indeed fully functional, communications systems included, but apparently there was trouble on their home planet; nobody would pick up. On their twelfth attempt there came a click, then a gravelly voice Azher immediately recognized as King Deoge.

"I copy, Abeter. What's your status over there?"

"Degradu and Denatu both dead, sire."

"Where are the Earthlings?"

"They left for their homeworld, sire." 'Why should he care about them?' A long pause.

"Sire, is everything all right on Geo?"

"No," he sighed, "I suspect a great deal is not all right. Report to me as soon as possible. You have access to pods?"

"Yes, sire. We'll be there as soon as we can."

"Good. Geo, signing off."

"Abeter, signing off." Azher stared awhile longer at the comforting familiarity of the console, then shoved away, rising to his feet.

"Well, soldiers, it's time to start picking up the pieces."

* * * * *

Back on Earth, all was not well.

Tenshinhan and Chaozu had not been seen for several weeks. They were in the habit of disappearing for periods of time, but never at times this critical. Search parties returned empty-handed, never finding even a trace of the two.

Juuhachigou had been unable to assist in the search, suddenly laid low by a long series of migraines which painkillers simply couldn't touch. Krillin, afraid that Marron's presence might worsen his wife's condition, send the young toddler to stay at Chichi's for the interim. He visited whenever he could.

Bulma had been attempting to re-establish contact with Trunks' ship. It had taken a week to clean up after the explosion, and another to replace the damaged roof. Even now she was still finding bits of concrete or dried blood in crevices. For all she knew, it may have worked its way into the circuitry and was now blocking transmission.

The problem was, more likely, one of scale, she thought. The boys(she still thought of them as boys)had not yet arrived at their destination at the time of their last transmission, and even at that point they'd gone a long way: farther than old Namek, certainly, so chances were good that they were simply out of the range their equipment could handle.

There was nothing to do but wait, and trust in their innate ability to squeeze out of trouble, no matter how dire the situation. Bulma twirled a cigarette between nervous fingers, hardly daring to think of the consequences should anything happen to them. After all, they'd taken that vow--

Yamcha walked in, casually snatching the cigarette from her mouth and stubbing it out amongst some dozen or more in the heavy glass ashtray. Bulma glared at him. She'd managed to give up smoking years ago, but the boys' disappearance had marked her re-entry into the habit. It had been Vegeta who'd forced her to quit before; now Yamcha had taken the task upon himself. She didn't envy him.

"Any progress?" he asked, hardly even paying attention to his own words. He was merely fulfilling the ritual. He asked, she answered no, he tried to console her, she got bitchy and demanded a cigarette. The pattern had become depressing regular. Bulma, however, was apparently determined to break it; ignoring his question, she moved on to the next ritual.

"What about Tenshinhan and Chaozu?" Yamcha winced; now it was his turn to report the depressing lack of news. It alarmed him more than a little. He barely knew Chaozu, but he considered Tenshinhan his friend; and one thing he'd always admired was the fact that in any situation, Tenshinhan would always be there.

Suddenly, he wasn't. The anchor was gone. Yamcha didn't know what to do.

The old guard was breaking down: Krillin spent more time shopping than fighting, Piccolo was off "training" kami alone knew where, Goku was long since dead, and now this. Gohan, Goten, and Trunks represented the new blood of Earth's finest force, but now it was looking more and more likely that they, too, had disappeared. It was the end of an era.

Watching Bulma meddle away with her wires and dials, Yamcha sighed. For the first time in his life, he felt well and truly old.