Percussion

Chapter 15

Undertow

Trunks flexed his shoulder as he looked out the window, watching day break over the West City skyline. He'd woken up sore, but it was a satisfying soreness. He could swear that he could actually feel his body become stronger as each strained and torn muscle fiber repaired itself.

He had fallen into an almost comfortable routine. Though the better part of his training was done with Goku, it was interspersed with not infrequent lessons with his father and sparring sessions with Gohan—albeit with strict instructions from Goku not to over-train. Even his younger self could put up quite the challenge.

Trunks never ceased to be astounded by how powerful his eleven-year-old counterpart was. He realized that Gohan had been even younger than that when he had defeated Cell, but Goku's older son had also gone through much more intense and rigorous training. The young Trunks, by contrast, had not lived the sort of life that mandated constant training and—thankfully—had never experienced the sort of trauma that would transform him to an ascended Super Saiyan.

He finished stretching out, trying to shake off the lingering stiffness. He quickly dressed himself, donning one of the black gis Bulma had stocked in his dresser. He momentarily considered going leaving through the front door before deciding it would be easier and faster simply to fly out from his room.

Trunks opened his bedroom window and floated outside, shutting the window behind him before beginning his flight to Mount Paozu.

Goku polished off the last of his breakfast before setting his plate aside. "Welp," he said, rising from the table, "gotta go meet Trunks."

Chichi looked up at her husband from her seat, rolling her eyes at him over her mug. "You've got to?"

"Well, yeah," Goku said, "he's flying all the way out here from West City. I've gotta meet him in a few minutes."

"You're loving this," Chichi said with a scoff. "Having a new pupil all to yourself."

"What?" Goku asked innocently. "He's a good student."

"Of course he is," Chichi said, rolling her eyes. "Yes, please, Master Goku," she said, her tone gently mocking as she clasped her hands, "teach me everything you know!"

Goku chuckled sheepishly. "Well, if he's gonna fight Buu—"

"Why can't the boy train with his father?" Chichi asked.

"C'mon, Chichi, you really want to make him train with Vegeta? Every day?" Goku shot a winning smile at his wife. "Hasn't he been through enough?"

"Yeah!" Goten piped up around a mouthful of food. "Dad's way nicer than Vegeta!"

"Not a high bar to clear," Chichi muttered into her tea.

"I'll be back by lunch!" Goku said, his smile broadening.

"I wanna come, too!" Goten exclaimed as he set the last crumbs of his own breakfast aside. "Can I watch?"

"Better ask your mom," Goku replied.

Chichi sighed, casting her glance back and forth between her nearly-identical husband and son. "Don't know why I bother," she said, setting her mug down. "You're all hopeless."

Trunks stepped out of the shower, grabbing the fluffy white towel from the rack to dry off. His training session with Goku had begun early in the morning and lasted a few hours, leaving him with the better part of afternoon free.

Trunks wrapped his towel around his waist, then tied his damp hair back in a loose ponytail. He quickly made his way down the hallway back toward his bedroom to get dressed. He let the towel fall to the floor, then slipped on a ribbed grey sweater and a pair of jeans before heading back downstairs. He hadn't eaten anything since the night before, and his rigorous training session with Goku had left him famished. He knew that Bulma was tied up in meetings the better part of the day—he wasn't sure where either Vegeta or the younger Trunks had gotten off to—but hoped he could scrounge something up in the kitchen.

He walked downstairs, then rounded the corner and strode into the kitchen. He began to rifle through the large refrigerator, hoping to find something he could reheat in the microwave rather than make an almost certainly doomed attempt to cook.

"Whatcha looking for?"

Trunks startled up, narrowly managing to avoid slamming his head on the refrigerator shelf. He turned around to find his young counterpart standing behind him, holding what appeared to be a Capsule Corp-branded learning tablet.

"Hey," Trunks said, closing the refrigerator door behind him. "You startled me."

The younger boy rolled his eyes at the teenager. "Could you be a bigger dork?"

Trunks ignored the insult. "I was just trying to scope out some lunch." He pursed his lips pensively for a moment. "This might be a long shot, but do you have any idea how to cook?"

"No way, I was just going to make a sandwich or something," the young Trunks explained. "Mom doesn't like me cooking. Not since the time I tried to fry up some chicken last year. Mom says I caused about a hundred thousand zeni worth of smoke damage."

The teenager couldn't help laughing at that. "Please tell me you're exaggerating."

"What," the other boy said, looking mildly offended, "like you're such a great cook?"

"Not at all," Trunks confessed around another laugh. "I was permanently banned from the kitchen when I melted Mother's rice cooker. And managed to set part of the kitchen on fire in the process."

"Don't they turn off automatically?"

"That's what I thought," Trunks admitted. "And I managed to warp Gohan's tea kettle a couple of weeks ago." The teenager paused for a moment, frowning. "I really ought to replace that."

"You can't boil water?" the boy asked, raising an eyebrow. "You might actually be worse than me."

"I'm going to get my wallet," Trunks said, again ignoring his younger self's color commentary. "We can grab some lunch downtown."

"Oh, sure!" The younger boy's sardonic expression melted away into one of genuine enthusiasm. "Yeah, I know just the place."

Trunks looked around the small restaurant—if he could even call this hole-in-the-wall a restaurant—taking in the run-down establishment. He gazed at the peeling paint, the three small tables shoved awkwardly into one corner, the single, bored-looking female cashier, and the beat up television mounted on the wall that was blaring sports news between flashes of static.

"If I die of food poisoning," the teenager began, "I'm blaming you."

"Don't be such a wuss," the eleven-year-old Trunks responded. "The health department reopened this place months ago."

"I don't even see a menu in here."

"Well, duh," the child replied with a roll of his eyes. "You have to know what to get in a place like this. Just order two slaughterhouses."

"Two whats?"

"Trust me. I'll claim us a table."

Trunks nodded and stepped over to the counter. He placed the order, trying not to think too hard about what a "slaughterhouse" might consist of, then handed over a two-thousand zeni note as the cashier rang him up.

The cashier stopped short as she looked up to hand Trunks his change. "Wow." She stared at him for a moment, then turned her gaze to the younger Trunks seated at the table in the corner before addressing the teenager again. "Your little brother looks exactly like you."

"He's not—" Trunks began before catching himself. It was far easier to go along with the cashier's assumption rather than try to explain it away. "Uh, yeah," he agreed. "Strong genes in our family, I guess."

"Apparently," she said as she closed the cash register. She placed two soda bottles on a tray. "I'll be right back with the rest of your order." A disconcertingly short period of time passed before the cashier reappeared with two unusually large platters loaded up with rice, roasted tomatoes, and what Trunks had to trust were various kinds of grilled meats.

Trunks grabbed some plastic cutlery from the canister on the counter, carefully balancing the two platters and the soda as he brought them over to the table his counterpart had claimed. Fanfare blared from the television as Trunks slid into the narrow seat across from his young counterpart.

"And now," the interviewer on the television began, "a long-awaited interview with the greatest martial artist alive!"

"Oh no," the teenaged Trunks muttered aloud as Mr. Satan's trademark intro music began to play. "Why is he everywhere?"

"The colossus of combat!" the hype man on the television continued. "The behemoth of battle! The undisputed world champion!"

"Miiiiiiister Satan!" the younger Trunks said in unison with the voice from the television. He scoffed before taking a sip from his soda. "He's such a clown. He spends more time talking about fighting on tv than actually fighting."

"I've noticed," the teenager agreed.

The younger boy shot over a sly glance at his older self as he swallowed a bite of food. "I punched him out once, you know."

"Are you serious?" Trunks asked. "When? Why?"

"Martial Arts Tournament three years back. Exhibition between the junior division winner and the 'champ.'" The boy smiled, making air quotes with his fingers around the word "champ." "He went down so hard I thought he'd thrown the match to make me look good."

"I don't think that was a very fair fight, Trunks," the teenager said with a chuckle. "Still, I would have loved to see that."

"Gohan gave me an earful about learning how to pull my punches after," the boy said around a bite. "Guess he didn't like me breaking his girlfriend's dad's face."

The elder Trunks coughed as he tried not to choke on his soda. "For what it's worth," he said with another laugh, "he probably had it coming after the stunts he pulled during the Cell Games."

"Like what?" the child asked. "No one ever wants to talk about the Cell Games."

Trunks looked away, suddenly very interested in the thin paper napkin he'd placed on the edge of the table. "Yeah," he said, fiddling with the corner of the napkin. "It was . . . a rough time."

"Are you talking about dying?"

Trunks abruptly glanced back at his young counterpart. "Are you always this blunt?"

"Sorry," the boy said. "It just seems like everyone will mention Cell and then clam up."

"How'd you know I died, then?"

"That's about as much as Mom told me," the child explained. "You and Cell were both time travelers, Cell managed to kill you and Goku, Gohan beat him, they wished you back but couldn't wish Goku back."

"Okay," Trunks said tentatively, "is there something else you want to know?"

"Yeah, actually. There's one thing I can't figure out."

"What's that?"

"Did Cell come with you from the future? How'd he even get here?"

"Oh," Trunks said. "He stole Mother's time machine."

"Then how'd you get here?"

"Well, Cell found—" The older Trunks stopped short, suddenly realizing the import of his younger self's question. "He didn't come from my future. He came from a future just like mine, killed me in that future, and took that time machine back here."

"So Cell showed up ten years ago in another time machine after murdering another me? Or, another you?" The younger boy frowned at the older one. "How many timelines are there?"

"I don't know," the teenager admitted, frowning. "I can't believe we didn't think of it before. Mother and I were so focused on the connection between this timeline and our own that we didn't even consider the possibility that a third timeline might be at the center of our problem."

"So the problem might not be Buu!" the younger boy said. "You might not have to go back and fight him!"

The teenaged Trunks' expression softened. "Is that what this is about?"

The younger boy looked down, pushing his food around on his plate with his plastic fork. "I don't think you understand how strong Buu is. There's gotta be another way to fix this."

"Trunks," the older boy reassured, "he isn't going to be as strong as he was here. There aren't enough fighters for him to draw energy from. He might not even wake up before I destroy him."

"Then why bother with all this training?"

"Because I can't know for sure, and I don't want to risk waking him up if I'm not ready for him."

"So you don't know ascending is gonna be enough at all. You don't know anything for sure."

The teenager sighed. "We've been over this already. We have to play the odds here. I've met the good Buu and I've gotten as much intel on him as I can. I can't be sure this is going to work but it's the best way forward."

"It's a huge risk."

"It is," Trunks agreed. "But some risks are worth taking. What I can't risk is sitting around doing nothing."

An awkward silence fell between the two boys. The younger one took another bite, looking deep in thought as he chewed. "So what happened to Cell's time machine?" he said after swallowing. "Can you check it out, maybe see if there's anything about Cell's timeline there?"

"No," Trunks explained. "I brought it back to Mother in my timeline after we fought Cell here. Never thought I would need it here, so I didn't bring it with me."

"And I'm guessing you can't go get it from her."

"With the timestream so destabilized, going back and forth between timelines is too risky. The next time I return to my timeline is probably going to have to be the last."

The boy's brow furrowed. "But it's in this timeline, too."

"What do you mean?"

"You can't get it from your future. But maybe you can get it from our past."

Trunks rubbed his temples, thinking through his younger self's suggestion. "It's an interesting thought. But Cell changed history so much from my own time. I might creating a paradox, or even cause another timeline to splinter off. I can't take a chance on making things worse."

"So don't change history," the younger boy insisted. "Just go back and do some more investigating. Don't do anything to change the past, just try to get some info before you fly off to try and fight Buu."

It was the older Trunks' turn to furrow his brow. He sat for a long moment, staring at his soda bottle as bubbles drifted up the side of it. "You're too goddamn smart for your own good," he finally sighed out in reply.

"So you'll do it?" the other boy asked hopefully.

"No," he said. "There's too big a chance of fracturing the timestream again. But you may be on to something with that third timeline." Trunks took a long sip from his soda as he considered what, exactly, he was going to say to his mother.

Bulma entered another series of keystrokes on her computer, frowning at the screen. Trunks had been waiting for her when she'd arrived home from her meetings that afternoon, and he immediately accompanied her to her laboratory. She'd listened intently as the teenager explained the conversation he'd had with her eleven-year-old son and the questions that had arisen during their discussion. Neither she nor, from what she could tell from the notes, her alternate future self had actually considered the possibility that the third timeline Trunks referred to—the one Cell had come from—could have something to do with the problems Trunks' timeline was facing.

It was a reasonable enough theory, in principle, but there was a serious problem with Trunks' hypothesis. "I understand what you're saying," Bulma began, "but if there is a third timeline, I should be able to pick it up using the dark matter as a conduit. There are only two sets of energy signatures coming from the Earth's spatial coordinates."

"If there's a third timeline?" Trunks leaned in, looking over Bulma's shoulder at the glowing screen. "We know there's a third timeline. We know that's where Cell came from. How can it just be gone?"

"The fact that I'm not picking it up doesn't mean it's gone, necessarily," Bulma replied. "It might mean the connection between our timelines has been severed."

"But Cell was able to travel here."

"Yes," Bulma said, turning around in her chair. "Fourteen years ago. And he dramatically changed our history from his own and from yours. For all we know, he could be the reason the connection between the timelines was severed."

Trunks pulled a spare stool up to Bulma's desk, sitting next to her. "That doesn't make sense, though. You're the one who said that we're all one universe. That's how the dark matter is able to give you any kind of view into my timeline."

"Trunks," Bulma explained gently, "there is so much we don't know. We're so, so far into the realm of theoretical physics right now. Before you came to our time, we didn't even have any direct evidence of multiverse theory at all. I can't tell you what happened to Cell's timeline. I can tell you the only timelines I'm getting a read on now are this one and yours."

Trunks sighed. "Another dead end, then."

"It's not a dead end," Bulma said. "You've got a reasonable plan—go back to your time and destroy Buu before he becomes a bigger problem. Nothing's changed since this morning."

"Sure," Trunks said. Even as he agreed with his mother, he sounded unconvinced. "Nothing's changed at all."

Trunks stared out his window, finally having given up on sleep. He'd been tossing and turning all night—he hadn't gotten a single minute of rest. Dawn had yet to break, and the rest of the household was, as far as he could tell, still fast asleep.

His thoughts had been racing all night. He rubbed his eyes before turning on the lamp on his nightstand and slipped on a pair of pants and a sweatshirt. He reached for the capsule canister in the nightstand, popping it open and examining the precious cargo inside. He closed the canister and slipped it into his pocket. Moving as silently as he could, he opened his window, slipping out and landing in the enclosed yard of the Capsule Corp compound.

It was a risky strategy. There was a good chance it wouldn't even provide the answers he needed. Whatever had happened to Cell's timeline, something—maybe even his own interference with the timestream—had broken the connection between that third timeline and this one. If he were really going to attempt time travel yet again, he couldn't be as cavalier as he'd been with his other trips to the past. He would have to move with extreme caution to ensure he didn't create yet another timeline or pollute the timestream further.

He once again pulled the capsule canister out of his pocket. The small, stainless steel container gleamed in the fading moonlight. If he did this right, he could be back before anyone knew he was gone.

And if you do this wrong, a voice in his head began, you could destroy everything you've worked for.

"Fuck," Trunks swore, popping the canister open. The time travel capsule felt surprisingly heavy in his hand. "Just decide, Trunks," he said aloud to himself. "Go, or don't. Make a decision."

Trunks stood on the grass in the dim light, staring at the capsulized time machine in his palm and struggling through the same internal argument he'd been having with himself all night. If he went back in time again, he could do even more damage to the fragile timestream; if he didn't, he could be depriving himself of critical information he needed to stabilize his timeline.

Trunks nearly dropped the capsule in surprise as he felt a familiar presence land beside him, startling him out of his mental debate. He turned around to find his younger self, still dressed in sleep pants and a t-shirt, standing on the grass mere feet away from him.

"Take me with you."