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ONE
The sun was sunning and the birds were birding over and around that blackhole known as the playground where Trunks had been dragged on this day, his first day of fifth grade at Capsule Genius Academy: Elementary Division.
“Now, Trunks,” the school guru and guidance counselor squeezed his hands, “don’t be afraid of it, dear.” Dad would have pulverized this pest for calling him dear because that privilege was restricted to Mom and Grandma. “Out there’s a space designed to stimulate cognitive functions, y’know, fun.” Trunks was not a numbskull and knucklehead like Mr Satan. He sniffed the underhanded fun of school staff, playing their newest member for laughs. “It isn’t healthy for you to hide on the roof during recess.”
Imagination stirred up images of Dad shouting “Saiyans aren’t cowards!” whenever Mom asked if he was too scared to do something like mow the lawn. “I’m not hiding.” He pulled his hands from the furry clutches of Miss Bliss. “I’ve got to catch up on homework.”
“No homework’s been assigned yet.”
“I like to stay ahead.”
“Dear, just look out there.” she pointed at the jungle gym of total lameness. “Look at all the fun they’re having! You can too if you just--”
Blah blah blah. Mobile devices were absolutely banned here or there thanks to jammers everywhere. Even at recess! And fifth graders were almost teenagers, so they were way, way too old for sandboxes, merry-go-rounds and playhouses. Climbing walls were laughable for those who could fly. Monkey bars were pitiful and pathetic when Goten and he had chased Bubbles during their visit to clutterbrained King Kai. And the dumbass sports! No one here was in his league, able to lift sixteen tons and run at transonic speeds when in "normal" mode. Blah blah blah.
Trunks put his pinky in his ear nearest the blah blah blah, a habit he had acquired from Gotenks. The first few fusions were a pitch black lacuna within memory. But Goten and he could remember what had happened ever since they visited the Time Chamber. They had not told anyone, hoping to avoid lectures on being more respectful of fellow fighters when fused. But they suspected Piccolo was onto them with his ability to detect the most delicate whispers in the universe to bust fun like balloons.
“--if you just try!” Miss Bliss sighed. “Coach Gym, please, come help me.”
Trunks flinched. Loud and Satan-loving Coach Gym Gymynym was the brainless brawn who had once called him small, weak and scrawny for not participating in sports. Until the day he had informed Mom. But not Dad because he could not deal with these school things. And so, Mom had arranged it so Coach would be terminated like Cell if her son was harassed about his size and strength. But not really. It meant Coach would not be able to be a hall monitor at any drone-banning school on Earth.
“What is it?” Coach appeared, Capsule Eternadurable Dodgeballs tucked beneath sweaty armpits, clad in a stained SATAN SAVES sweatsuit. He had never believed staff and students when told Trunks was Junior World Martial Arts Champion. And no one would believe Trunks if he announced Videl Satan was NOT dating Rubarb from “Keeping Up With the Radishes”. “Miss Bliss, how can I save the day?”
“Trunks doesn’t want to have fun.”
Coach glared at Trunks who stood three inches short of five feet, taller than Royal Saiyans were supposed to be at his age. “Briefs, you've grown this Summer!” he yelled, showing yellowy teeth. “Now get your new muscles out there!”
“Have you forgotten?” Trunks rolled his eyes. “I’m excused from phys ed stuff.”
“Young man, strength only come through adversity.”
“Oh, is that what Mr Satan says?”
“You know it!” Coach screamed. “You can at least dodge the balls!”
“But--but--but I might get hurt.”
“Then you can throw the balls!”
An indestructible ball was passed to Trunks. His hands held squishy bounciness like a dirty-diapered baby. Coach huffed, shaking his head. Trunks crushed it with his point-it-out fingers. “Oops.” He flung deflated fun aside and snatched the second ball from Coach. This one he tossed with enough force so it would fly free of earthly gravity. “Double oops.”
Both Miss Bliss and Coach Gymynym needed to have their jaws reattached. Others had watched the whole episode. But having seen this before, they were swift to resume their businesses. Trunks would do likewise, leaping to the roof where his jammer-proof capsule mobile gamer had a leaked copy of Kung Fu Raccoon XVI (Rated M for Martial Arts). Or he could fly to the Lookout and hide in the Time Chamber long enough to be too old for the lameness of fifth grade.
TWO
Select your opponent! Pacha “Punchy” Alpaca. Cleaver “Berserk” McBeaver. Theda Capybara. Drake “Diablo” Duckowalski. Will Ferrell O’Ferret--
His ki sense stung like super spicy sauce on Satan Stadium hotdogs. It did not rattle him with dread and trepidation. Not like when Dad waited outside school (where some mother would comment on his "hot bod") to escort “a warrior delinquent” home to train as scheduled for becoming a superascended Super Saiyan 2. Trunks glanced up at the danger dashing toward him. It was named Son Goten and his t-shirt was emblazoned with Bobjelly & Joefish and their Aqüatic Wünderbüddies. Velcro-laced shoes landed beside Trunks who hunched over his muted gamer.
“Hey bestie!” Goten shouted. “Whatcha doin’?”
“Uh, you’re not supposed to be here.” Trunks selected Phineas “Sharknado” Finn as his opponent. “And aren’t you supposed to be training?”
“Nope, I’m done for the day,” Goten answered. “Gohan’s gone to play superhero with Videl.” He plopped beside Trunks while underwater competition was underway. “And Mom’s taken Dad to buy new dishes since he broke the last of ’em.” They needed everlasting katchin dishes like the Briefs had so Mom and Dad did not damage them.
“Oh, that sounds exciting.” Trunks thumped buttons to avoid jawbreakers and torrent thrashers. “Maybe they’ll buy collectible plates with Mr Satan’s face on ’em.”
Goten snorted. “That’d be weird when Mr Satan comes to dinner.” He leaned against Trunks to inspect the gamer screen. “Whatcha playin’? It looks fun.”
“Kung Fu Raccoon XVI.”
“Oh, cool!” Goten shouted as Kung Fu Raccoon roundhouse kicked Phineas Finn in the dorsal fin. “Hey, that’s not supposed to come out til World Raccoon Day.”
Trunks grinned, “Mom hacked it for me.”
“Can I take it home sometime?” He would do so with the utmost secrecy because Chi-Chi believed Goten did not need to participate in virtual martial arts too.
“Of course you can.” The recess bell rang and rung annoyance so Trunks capsulized his gamer which was paused on Round One. “You better go now.” It would be embarrassing if his classmates discovered his bestie dressed like an overgrown kindergartener. “I’ve got chem class.”
“Hey, will you be blowing stuff up?”
“Not on the first day of school.” Trunks leapt onto his feet. “I’m not supposed to learn anything today anyway.” His arms stretched. And his mind stretched, too, clutching onto a wicked cool wondrous idea. “Hey, let’s go find the Dragon Balls instead.”
“Yeah, cool!”
“I’m gonna wish to be homeschooled like you.”
“I’ll need to think about mine,” Goten replied. “Maybe I should ask for dishes that really are indestructible."
“C’mon, we need to get the Dragon Radar before Mom or Yamcha get a call I’ve gone missing.”
Goten gasped like he had seen octopus-sized pastries. “Hey, I know!” he laughed. “I’ll wish for us to be homeschooled together!”
“But your mom’s tougher than my teach--”
CHAKA-CHAKA-BOOM-BOOM! Controlled lab explosions were expected at this school. But not outdoor bangs, booms and blasts accompanied by wails, howls and caterwauls. Trunks and Goten exchanged glances and nodded at each other, knowing it was time for them to save the world again.
THREE
Hidden behind boysenberry bushes by big blue buses, they watched thick black smoke blow away. Scorched earth smoldered where the jungle gym of total lameness once stood. Tall climbing walls had collapsed. And disappeared, too, along with all the so-called implements of fun which sane tweenagers shunned. The blackhole known as the playground was no more, no more than the sight and stench of melted plastics in a shallow crater.
Grey smoke lingered low, less than knee-deep for he who tromped through it toward the parking lot packed with panicky people. He had a long black braid and a thin mustache like caterpillar fur. He wore a pink longcoat that had “KILL YOU!” splayed on its back in blood-colored letters. And he was decked out with cyberware more ancient than Master Roshi.
Red telescopic eyes scanned the crowd cowering for cover. “Bring me the child of Bulma Briefs!” his steely voice projected like a Saiyan spit missile. “If he isn’t brought him here within three minutes, the killings will begin!” He cackled as the crowd screeched and shivered louder.
“Hey,” Goten yanked Trunks by the shirt, “how’re we gonna attack someone that weak?”
“Hmm.” Mom would blow a fuse if he attacked first. “I’ll surrender.” But Dad would have a meltdown if he fought without offensive tactics after all that training. “He’ll be focused on me, so you can take him from behind. Just wait for me to start bawling.”
“Two minutes!” the ancient cyborg shouted. “You have two minutes until the killings begin!”
Trunks stumbled out of the bushes. “Oh, pwease, don’t huwt them!” he babytalked. “Mistaw, pwease pwease pwease, don’t huwt them!”
Red eyes reeled out to scan him as he tottered forth. “Ah, yes, you’re the child of Bulma Briefs.”
“I’m Twunks. What’s youw name?”
“Where’s the Dragon Radar?”
“What’s that?”
“Well, if you don’t know, she’ll have to bring it to me.” Metallic claws clutched Trunks around the throat. “And if she doesn’t, then I’ll kill you!”
Trunks unleashed the tears like Mom had taught him long ago, mainly to irritate Dad. “But--but--but I’m too young to die!”
Out of the bushes, Goten zoomed like a bullet, headbutting the cyborg in the butt. The hold on him loosened so Trunks tugged at cybernetic arms. And he detached them from the mechanized mummy with one yank. The manbot yowled as empty armholes sizzled with electricity and cyborg juice sprayed from knob and tube veins. Goten calf-kicked low and Trunks backfisted high. The malfunctioning attacker loudly bellyflopped onto the pavement being heavy as medieval armor.
Besties fistbumped over the cyborg. He clumsily rolled onto his side. “YOU!?” Red eyes flared. “IT’S IMPOSSIBLE!” Pink cloth ripped. His chest ruptured. From it clambered a mounted raygun, like one in old Buckaroo Rooster movies. “SUPER DODAN--”
Trunks blasted a basic blue ki beam. The cyborg screamed as the raygun disintegrated into subatomic matter. “Oops!” Trunks sneered. “Goten, let’s leave before the media gets here.”
FOUR
But they were already here, hoverdrones and helicopters from all major Great West Metroplex affiliates. There were scores of emergency responders, too, adding their sirens to the orchestra of whirs and whizzes. Civil defenders leapt from paracopters, armed with Tien-sized rotocannons shittily made by the military-industry pill complex, as Mom would say. And they all encircled Trunks and Goten, ready to interview, capture or obliterate.
Into the circle the star investigator from Action News 5 strutted, clad in a blinged out trenchcoat. “We thought he’d become an urban legend like the Golden Fighter,” she hollered into her oversized microphone. “But there, wriggling on the cement, he lays: the mercenary-turned-cyborg Tao!”
“Dude, those’re some old school components,” her camera catman commented. “They’d fetch a whole bunch on Ubuy.”
“Everyone clear away!” a dino police sergeant roared. “This here is a crime scene!”
“Hey, officer,” Goten shouted at the dinoman over the din, “can we ride in a police copter with the siren on?”
Trunks rolled his eyes as the sergeant stomped nearer. “Why would you wanna do that?”
“I’ve never ridden in one."
“Son,” the sergeant yelled, “what’s your name?”
“Um, Goten.”
“Tell us!” The star investigator thrust her microphone into his face. “Um Goten, tell us how it felt to take down the infamous mercenary-turned-cyborg Tao.”
“Briefs!” Coach Gymynym entered the circle, too, his sweats now swamped in sweat from neck to ankle. “What fudge nuggetty tricks did you just use here?”
Trunks huffed, for the trillionth time, at Satan-worshipping stupidity. “Uh, Coach, I’m the current Junior Martial Arts World Champion.”
“And I’m his runner-up,” Goten added. “My dad won way, way back in 756 against Piccolo Jun--”
“No!” the fizzling cyborg on the fritz warbled. “Goku--Goku has another son!?” His sonic cries seized eyes and ears from onlookers.
And in those distracting seconds, Trunks and Goten skedaddled from the groundlings. Skyward they went, gliding by lurking aircraft who would not detect them on skydar. They were higher than the tallest building in West City, bound for the cloudbanks, when green hands grabbed their necks.
FIVE
Up on the Lookout--blah blah blah!--Piccolo lectured about self-discipline. After two hours, Trunks kept yawning. Goten hummed old cartoon themes songs while having thumb twiddling fun in the shade. Mr Popo had confiscated their capsules since Piccolo prohibited any nanogram of theoretical fun that could be contained within. And Poor Dende, he was condemned to study planetary guardianship until he could recite all 11,001 items in the Guardian Code of Conduct without error.
Piccolo paced, cape flapping to and fro, barfing blah blah blahs like Dad did about training every second or third sentence (even while training). Trunks did not carp or complain about it around Mom because she would offer her own lecture: “Now, Trunks, that’s about the only way your emotionally fucked up father can show concern.” But it was hilarious whenever Dad advised Krillin how he should be training his daughter Marron, not watching Master Roshi froth like a fucktard in front of the TV.
“Trunks, are you listening?” Piccolo screamed closer than a contact shot to the ear. “You’re not supposed to bring undue attention to yourselves!”
“We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You’re not listening!”
Blah blah blah. Goten ceased humming cartoony tunes. He reached into his right back pocket and out slid a slick, shiny new mobile. Ah, so had Gohan and Videl convinced Chi-Chi that Little Goku was nine years instead of nine months? Probably not. Goten fiddled with this device while Piccolo shouted about proper warrior mentality to Trunks. Blah blah blah.
“Uncle Piccolo, look!” he held up the mobile for Namekian viewing pleasure. “Just look and listen to the news!”
Trunks listened: “At noon today, two students prevented a cyberkilling spree by Cyborg Tao at Cap--”
"Mmmph." Piccolo kidnapped the mobile and somehow knew how to mute it. It was rare for him to use any technology, even things dating back to the Stoned Age. “You were still on your way to do something.”
“Uh, yeah,” Trunks huffed, “like use the bathroom.”
Goten smiled, “Or study.”
“You’re going to study here!” the Namekian grinch snarled. “You’re going to study until you're--”
“But we can’t study without snacks.” It seemed Goten had been studying how to be a smartass, too.
“Your disgusting Saiyan stomachs are--”
Words divebombed into silence with supersonic speed charging toward the Lookout. Dad arrived, clad in non-training clothes, face stoic and arms crossed. His black eyes beamed at besties as if they were guilty of skipping gravity training when he was totally skipping out of his own (probably to eat out). “Well well, Piccolo, what have you caught them doing today?”
"Needing more lessons in self-discipline."
Blue eyes rolled. By the Great Dragon, sometimes those two were like so totally alike with their blah blah blahs. “Uh, we only rescued my school from a crazy cyborg killer.”
“It’s all over the news, too,” Goten added. “Check what my phone says.”
Dad swiped the mobile from Piccolo. He scowled as his thumbs scrolled through the triflings of Earthlings. His eyes swelled like sponges, probably because he was absorbing the address on an all-you-can-eat eatery ad. He only used his own “dumb primitive doodad” for directions to food trucks and restaurants.
But his eyes glowed and his face gnarled with ancient fury. Aloud he read: “The boys are lifelong martial artists of the Satan Academy, said their martial arts mentor Coach Gymynym.” Dad crushed the mobile like he had his own many times. “The media must be obliterated. Saiyans won’t be mistaken for disciples of that blithering idiot so long as I’m Prince of All Saiyans!”
“GOTEN!” Uh-oh, Chi-Chi was here! How in the hell had she found him so soon? Nimbus carried her to the cluster of warriors. Her face was more fearsome than Dad when he was hungry for dessert. And so dread, in fact, Piccolo was frightened.“GOTEN!”
“Hey Mom!” Goten greeted her as she leapt off Nimbus, as if oblivious to her grimace. “Didya see the news?”
“Yes, I did.” She smiled warmly and ruffled his always unkempt hair. “I’m very proud of my little fighter.” Sweetness crumbled and she smacked his head. “And have you already forgotten how to use a freakin' phone?”
“Vegeta destroyed it.”
“Did you lose it?”
“No, Vegeta really did de--”
“Now, Goten, call your brother or me before you fly off,” she scolded with her chronically tsking finger. “Unless you’d prefer a GPS chip be put up your butt.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“So is that a yes to the chip?”
"No!" Goten lost color. “No, Mom, I mean I’ll--”
“We don’t have time for this!” Dad rasped, grasping both boys by their arms with bone-smashing strength. “Silly Earthlings are being brainwashed to believe our sons are Satan’s disciples.”
“He had nothing to do with my baby boy!” Chi-Chi hooked and crossed the air with her fists. “I’m the one who first taught him to fight.” She yanked Goten away from Dad while Piccolo stood agape at this major development. “We need to hold a press conference stat.”
Trunks winced, remembering the World Martial Arts Tournament. “Uh, I hate interviews!”
“Ah, but we’ll get to be on live TV,” Goten cheered as they were dragged away. "It's better than wishing for dishes any day."