Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ I Can't Make You Say Goodbye ❯ Separation ( Chapter 3 )

Disclaimer: DB/Z/GT do not belong to me. If, by some miracle they did, there would certainly be a lot more Kuririn and #18 in there!!!

A/N: I've given up on Author's Notes in the reviews. BAH! Stupid thing tells me that it didn't work, so I did it again, so now I have two identical (LONG) sets of a/n in the reviews... and the 'remove review' option isn't there. Ahh, this is dumb.

Anyway. Chapter three, filled with angst, denial, and the slow disintegration of a formerly close-knit family . . . .

Chapter Three: Separation

"Dende!"

The pain-filled voice tore through the empty space at Kami's Lookout, causing its occupants to sit up and stare. Popo-san, who had been tending his flowerbed, frowned in consternation. "O, my," he murmured, getting to his feet and running to the edge of the Lookout, where he could see a small figure standing.

Dende, the Guardian of Earth, came running to join him, his robes flapping out behind him like the wings of some giant, ethereal bat. "Kuririn-san!" the Nameksejin cried worriedly, "What's the matter?"

Kuririn stood in front of them, looking as anguished as Dende had ever seen him. His hair was mussed and his clothes rumpled, and he was in need of a shave. Dende took all this in with one quick sweep of his eyes, but his gaze came to rest on the tiny, blanket-wrapped bundle Kuririn was clutching to himself protectively. His eyes widened, as he remembered Kuririn's joyous proclamation six months prior.

"The baby?" Dende gasped.

Kuririn nodded shortly, his jaw set with pain. "He's dead," he declared, voice cracking. "There was an accident, and he was born prematurely. The doctors couldn't do anything for him, and we had to let him go. I want the Dragonballs."

Dende had never heard Kuririn speak in such harsh tones before, and it scared him. He knew his friend must be experiencing a tremendous amount of pain, but it was still odd. Kuririn was normally so happy . . . "Kuririn-san . . ."

The former monk frowned. "What? What's the matter? Can't I use the Dragonballs?"

Dende folded his small hands in front of himself, and his eyes began to fill with tears. "Kuririn-san, I'm sorry . . . I can't do that. I'm not strong enough."

Those little words, as few as they were, tore through Kuririn, burning his heart as though he had been stabbed with a firebrand. Any last hopes he might have entertained were torn from him and tossed to the wind, like pieces of ragged fabric. "Wh.. Why?" he asked, his voice coming out as little more than a whisper.

"The Dragonballs can't be used to revive anyone who died of natural causes," Dende sniffled, wiping his eyes with a corner of his cape. "It's too complicated that way. If someone died in battle, that's different - there was a wrong to be made right, or a bravery to be rewarded, or . . . or something. This . . . this is something different. This was Nature, and I can't go against that. I'm sorry, Kuririn-san!" he added defensively as he saw the betrayal rise in his friend's eyes. "I didn't make them that way on purpose!"

"Shenron can't help me," Kuririn stated dully, disbelievingly.

Dende shook his head slowly. "He can't do anything I can't do. I'm so sorry," he moved a hand to touch the small form nestled in Kuririn's arms, but Kuririn pulled away.

"Don't touch him," he snapped, "You might hurt him."

Dende gasped. "But . . . I thought . . ."

"You don't know anything!" Kuririn screamed at him, and he backpedalled a few feet before leaping into the air and flying off back to Earth.

Dende collapsed to his knees, sobbing hysterically, wishing with all his strength that he had enough power, just this once, to resurrect one tiny life. "It's not fair," he cried, beating the marble tiles with his fists. "It's not fair! Kuririn-san never did anything wrong . . . what did he and #18-san do to deserve this?"

"Nothing is fair," came a deep voice from behind him. "You'll understand that someday."

The pint-sized Guardian whirled around to see Piccolo, his sensei, standing behind him, apparently unaffected. But knowing Piccolo as he did, Dende saw the pain and sympathy that flashed in his friend's eyes. "It ... was ... just ... a ... baby ..." he cried gaspingly, his body shaking from the force of his weeping, and he launched himself at Piccolo, burying his face in the older Nameksejin's pant leg.

"Make it better, Piccolo-san," Dende's small form trembled as he wept, fingers digging into Piccolo's leg. "Please . . ."

One corner of Piccolo's mouth tugged downward, the only outward indication of his sorrow besides his eyes. "I'm sorry, Dende. I can't," he curled one hand around the back of Dende's head protectively, letting him cry.

The warrior stared out at the clouds, where Kuririn had disappeared. Kuririn . . . he thought sadly, May your son's spirit rest in peace. May you know how deeply sorry we all are . . .

******

"Daddy, Mommy wants you to come inside," Marron said timidly, coming up beside her father. He was kneeling in the grass behind Kame House, in front of a white slab of stone. Kuririn sat holding a bouquet of flowers, which he was in the process of laying in front of the grave.

"Tell Mommy I'm not hungry," Kuririn replied tersely, running his fingers over the gravestone.

Marron frowned in confusion. "But Mommy said -"

"I don't care!" Kuririn thundered, and Marron recoiled in fear, her round face crumpling. "Mommy can deal with me staying out for one night. Now get inside!"

Marron burst into tears and ran into the house, calling, "Mommyyyy!!" in a distraught voice.

As soon as she had gone, Kuririn collapsed, falling forward, resting his forehead on the ground and digging his fingers into the soil of the fresh grave. Kuri had been buried that afternoon, after a funeral that involved Kuririn's family and friends. Kuririn hadn't wanted anyone to come, but #18 had been quietly insistent, and Kuririn wasn't so buried in his own sorrow that he would ignore her wishes completely.

The teddy bear from Goten and Trunks had been buried with him, along with the blanket that ChiChi had made for him prior to his birth, and a couple other things. #18 had inquired as to why Kuririn didn't want to keep them himself as mementos, but Kuririn had snapped at her, asking if she wanted Kuri to be cold and lonely down there. Her face had paled and gotten an alarmed look across it, but she hadn't argued after that.

"It's not fair," Kuririn's voice was low and harsh, coming from the back of his throat, almost like a growl. "It's not fair. He was just a baby - only five days old. What would anyone in the Other World want with a five-day-old baby?" his chest hitched, and it was painful to take a breath. "He was my baby . . . I was gonna' take care of him, and love him, and train him . . . #18 and I were gonna' teach him to fight, so he could spar with us if he wanted to, and Marron was going to show him how to play and just be a kid . . ."

It was horrible, thinking of all the things they had planned for this wonderful boy, who had been such a miraculous life - and had been so cruelly taken away.

He sat up, looked at the gravestone. On it were the words: Kuri. Beloved son of Kuririn and #18, brother to Marron. Godson of Son Goku and ChiChi. In smaller letters below read, Five days old.

Kuririn glanced at the bottom of the stone, where above a small, carved image of the Dragonballs was a poem. It was composed by Marron when they had taken Kuri home, and it had a way of tearing through the heart of whoever read it, with its heartfelt emotion and open, typically childlike honesty. It made a catch come to Kuririn's throat every time he read it . . .

Brother

You were tiny

You were small

You were cute and beautiful

Now you're gone

I miss you

I miss your little fingers

Your fuzzy hair

I wanted you to play with me

I wanted you to live

But you were so wonderful

Heaven wanted you back

So now you play in Heaven

With all the other babies

When you play

Do you think of me?

Because I think of you

I love you

Kuririn placed his fingers at the roots of his hair, pulling as hard as he could, trying to make the pain from that take his mind away from the fact that his heart was falling to pieces right inside his chest . . .

Soft footfalls sounded from behind him, and a hand fell on his shoulder. "Marron's crying in her room. She says you don't love her anymore," #18's voice was quietly reproachful.

"Tell her I'm sorry," Kuririn's reply was short and curt. He didn't even look at her. "I'm gonna' stay out here tonight, so you might as well go have supper without me."

#18 regarded him silently, a hundred different emotions flitting across her face like a flock of butterflies. Finally, she nodded. "Don't forget, you're not the only one who lost Kuri," she reminded him gently. "Marron and I loved him, too. And we still love him, Kuririn," when this elicited no response from her husband, #18 tightened her fingers over his shoulder for the briefest of seconds. "Don't stay up too late," with that, #18 turned and left.

Kuririn was almost glad to see her go. Seeing her brought back those happy months before Kuri's birth . . . the joy - euphoria - he had experienced waiting for the day when his child would come into the world. It was bad enough having to deal with Kuri's death without having #18 bring up fresh memories. And speaking of which . . .

Too late, Kuririn closed his eyes and tried to block out the imagine that swam up before his eyes, tried not to hear the voices that filled his ears, tried not to remember all the emotions of one particular day . . .

"Hey, squirt, it's your Daddy," Kuririn spoke slowly and clearly, his head resting on #18's stomach. "How are you doing in there?"

"Kuririn, please!" #18 moaned in protest, "Some of us are trying to sleep, you maniac."

Kuririn glanced at his wife, then at their slumbering daughter, who had insisted upon sleeping with them lately in case the baby came. He chuckled. "Aww, hon, it's morning already. Early morning, maybe, but still technically morning."

"It's far too early for me," #18 grumbled, playing with Marron's blonde pigtails. "And thanks to your nonsensical rambling, I haven't managed to get much sleep."

"Are you kidding?" Kuririn snorted with affectionate derision. "You snored almost all night!"

"I didn't snore."

Kuririn just laughed, and he tapped #18's stomach with one finger. "Hey, kiddo, if you heard Mommy snoring, give a big kick," he instructed.

Nothing happened and #18 was about to grin triumphantly when the baby suddenly gave a sharp kick. "Hey!" she complained, though a smile managed to creep through the manufactured annoyance. "You're supposed to be on my side!"

"Gotcha', babe," Kuririn punched her shoulder lightly. "You heard Mommy snore, didn't you, baby?"

#18 shook her head in wonderment at his innocence. "Kuririn, you don't honestly believe the baby can hear you, do you? It's pretty silly."

Her husband affected a wounded air, and he sniffed with mock-indignance. "Of course I believe it! The kid knows exactly who I am. I did this with Marron, too, and what was her first word, huh?"

"Papa," #18 admitted, her mouth twisting with wry amusement. "Okay, so maybe you're right. Don't let your ego overinflate - ow!" she glared at her midsection. "Stop moving in there! You aren't due for a while yet, so just settle down."

"Here, let me try," Kuririn put his hand on her stomach and moved it in a circular motion, pressing gently. "Just go to sleep," he soothed, "Let Mommy rest," placing his head next to his hand, Kuririn began humming softly, crooning a quiet lullaby. Sure enough, the unborn child settled down. Kuririn smiled and went back to his side of the bed.

"Thanks, Kuririn," #18 murmured sleepily, starting to doze off herself.

Kuririn patted her shoulder. "Any time. Sweet dreams."

#18 nodded, and without realizing it she reached for his hand. "You, too," a few minutes later, she was asleep.

Kuririn squeezed her hand, then let go and put his hands behind his head, smiling broadly. He was still grinning when he drifted off to sleep.

Kuririn let out a wordless yell of frustration and pain, and his ki flared dramatically. Jumping to his feet, Kuririn raised his face and hands to the sky and screamed, feeling the hurt transform into rage, and then again to raw, unadulterated power. Forks of blue lightning shot from his body as bright, white flame surrounded him. If he had been Saiyajin, Kuririn would have made the transition to Super right then and there.

The energy built up inside him until Kuririn thought he would explode, and to channel it, he cupped his hands to one side and focussed his energy there. "Ka . . .me . . . ha . . . me . . . HAAA!!!"

The enormous blast shot straight out to the ocean, where it hit the water with enough force to cleave the mighty sea in half for a few seconds. Kuririn continued to fire, surprised that the power kept coming, until he felt like he was made completely out of energy. He stayed at that power level until three o'clock the next morning, where he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

This routine continued for two weeks, broken only by brief trips to the kitchen, where Kuririn would down a glass or two of water or tend to other bodily needs. He refused to eat, no matter how much his family begged him, and rarely spoke to anyone. Even little Marron had given up trying to talk to him, and she hid in another room whenever he came inside.

#18, after being snapped at during an unsuccessful attempt to entreat Kuririn to come inside, watched sadly as her husband trudged back outside. His clothing was getting ragged and a scruffy beard covered the lower portion of his face, but somehow his unkempt appearance made him seem even more pitiable. "What am I going to do with you?" #18 murmured softly, pressing her fingers against her forehead. "This is so unlike you, Kuririn . . ."

She glanced at a photograph on the mantel. She and Kuririn had been sparring on the beach when Kamesen'nin had appeared with a camera - in a flash, Kuririn had snatched #18 by the waist and set her on one of his shoulders. #18 had smacked him and scolded him for his temerity after the picture was taken, of course, but when the photograph was developed, it revealed her startled grin.

Normally looking at that photo made #18 smile, but not today. Today she frowned, her forehead wrinkling with concern, and she ran her fingers lightly over the glossy paper. Kuririn had always been so open with his feelings, and that quality had been one of the first things that had drawn #18 to him - he didn't try (or didn't see the necessity) to hide his emotions. If he felt the need to cry, Kuririn always had.

But not this time. #18 sighed, wondering helplessly what she could do, since Kuririn had shut even her out - something he had never, ever done before. Finally she looked over her shoulder at the kitchen, where the others were making a pretense of having a normal meal, and she walked in to join them.

"Marron-chan, I want you to stay with Uncle Rôshi for a while, okay?" #18 smiled, trying her hardest to be the cheerful, together parent that her daughter so desperately needed right now.

Marron's small face fell. "Are you going to be away after bedtime?" she asked.

"Probably," in a comforting gesture, #18 bent down and kissed Marron's forehead. Marron's face scrunched up in a half-pleased, half-embarrassed smile, an expression that she had inherited from her father. "You can sleep in my bed again, if you want."

"Daddy's staying outside again?"

Try as she might, #18 couldn't keep the sadness and disappointment from her features. "I think so."

Marron sighed gustily. "Okay. 'Bye, Mommy. I love you."

'You, too, Marron-chan," #18 patted her daughter's head. "I'll be back later."

#18 paused for a moment as she passed by Kuririn. He was engaged in a one-sided sparring match with the ocean again, and didn't even acknowledge her presence - though, in his present state, it was doubtful whether or not he was even aware of her. #18 considered whether or not to go to him, then decided against it. Kuririn would ask for her if he wanted to.

Shaking her head, #18 took to the skies. The wind whipped at her hair and clothing, but she ignored the annoyance and kept flying at the same velocity. She didn't want to take more than an hour in her flight to Mt. Paozu.

Finally, #18 arrived at the Son house. She found it slightly ironic that she was seeking advice from the man whom she had once sought to kill, but these were different times. She knocked at the door, and there was a short pause before someone called, "I'm coming!"

Videl answered the door, and she jumped when she saw #18. "O, hey," Gohan's girlfriend smiled. "Are you looking for ChiChi?"

"Not this time," #18 replied, feeling rather uncomfortable. "Is Son Goku in?"

"Nah, he and Mom went out to dinner tonight," Gohan came up behind Videl and slung an arm over her shoulders, his boyish face lit up in a friendly grin. When he saw #18's expression, however, the smile faded. "Hey, what's the matter? You wanna' come in?"

#18 hesitated, then nodded. Gohan moved aside to let her pass, and #18 followed him to the living room, silently grateful that Gohan was still as observant and sensitive as he had been as an eleven-year-old.

Goten and Trunks were playing, but when they saw the look on Gohan's face, they quickly vacated the room, after tossing out a quick, simultaneous, "Hi, #18-san! 'Bye, #18-san!"

#18 sat on the couch, Gohan and Videl on either side of her, forming a protective wall. She was quiet for a minute, neither teenager pressing her to speak, and finally #18 drew in a deep breath. "I'm worried about Kuririn," she began, and related to them the events that had started with Kuri's death. Gohan and Videl were respectfully silent through the entire story.

"... I know he doesn't mean to hurt us," #18 toyed with the sleeve of her jacket. "But he is, all the same. I don't know what else is left for me to do. I've tried talking, but he won't acknowledge that I'm there . . . he won't come in the house, won't eat . . . He's hurting both Marron and me, and I know he's tearing himself up inside. I don't know how long Kuririn can keep up like this."

Gohan swallowed hard, trying to think, but was unable to come up with a comforting response. "I'm sorry, but I don't know what to tell you. It doesn't sound like Kuririn at all . . . he never hides his emotions like that. He used to tell me to cry, after Dad was killed in the Cell Games. I don't understand what would make him change like that."

Videl spoke up for the first time, her voice quiet and pensive. "Everyone has a breaking point, when he or she can't take anymore. Maybe losing a child was too much pain for Kuririn to handle."

All three fell silent, pondering this, and again Videl was the one to break the silence. "#18, you've told us about Kuririn, but . . . how are you holding up?"

#18 refused to meet anyone's gaze, and she flicked her eyes around the room apprehensively. Aside from the actual day that Kuri had died, #18 had spent all her time and mental energy comforting Marron or worrying about Kuririn - she hadn't ever really considered how she felt herself.

"I - I don't know," she replied honestly. "I suppose I haven't really dwelled on how I feel. It doesn't seem important, since Kuririn and Marron are so distressed."

Videl reached out and grasped one of #18's hands, giving it a reassuring squeeze. The gesture was so similar to what Kuririn used to do that it caused a lump to rise in #18's throat. "Don't worry about them for a minute. How do you feel?"

#18 said nothing, instead concentrating on the pain she had pushed to the far corner of her mind. She thought back two weeks, to the hospital ward. She remembered the overly-clean, sterilized smell of the room that had stung her nostrils - the almost painful tidiness, the air of quiet efficiency. She remembered the feeling that the doctors and nurses thought of Kuri as yet another statistic on a chart, not as #18 and Kuririn's son, as the sweet, innocent, and unique life that he had been.

#18 remembered holding Kuri in her arms for the first - and last - time, feeling Kuririn's hands trembling over hers. Watching, completely helpless, as her five-day-old son released his final breath, his life escaping as he did so. She remembered how cold Kuri's frail little body had been, no sign of warmth or chance for hope, and how there had been no change when he left them. No indication of passage or transition - just the knowledge that he was gone forever.

#18 thought back to the months of expectancy, at how happy she and her family had been, and how closely linked they had felt. Thought of how, now, they were being slowly torn apart . . .

Unbidden, a tear made its way down #18's smooth cheek. Then came another . . . and another . . . and another. Within seconds, #18 began to cry freely, her shoulders shaking and her entire body trembling. Videl gave her hand another squeeze, and without thinking Gohan rested a consoling arm around her shoulders. In any other situation, #18 might have pulled away from the sympathetic teenagers, feeling embarrassed and perhaps even angered by their concern, but for now the mask of pride was gone - if only for the moment.

In broken sentences, #18 struggled to communicate her thoughts. She had never been comfortable with expressing her feelings to anyone - save Kuririn, and even that trust had taken years to cultivate - and the process was awkward and stilted at first. As she began speaking, however, #18 grew less self-conscious and her words became clearer, her speech more confident. Gohan and Videl were good listeners, and they offered silent encouragement.

"... It's not just sadness because Kuri's gone, either," #18 admitted slowly. "It's . . . something else. I've always been aware of my . . . my inhumanity, and sometimes it bothers me," she glanced at Gohan, searching for any sign of contempt or scorn, but he merely smiled at her, urging her to continue.

"Having Marron was a way to prove to the world - and myself - that I'm still partially human; that I'm not just . . . just a . . ." #18 paused before adding, ". . . a machine without a directive anymore. Marron was my connection to my humanism. Kuri was going to be, too."

She stopped, then - it was too painful, too personal. The clock on the wall across the room ticked loudly, filling the room with a reminder of how the silence was growing. After the clock had marked off nearly two hundred clicks, #18 resumed her quiet, confused dialogue.

"It's like fate is laughing at me," #18 released her breath in a frustrated sigh. "It's as though I was 'allowed' to marry someone as wonderful as Kuririn, and 'allowed' to have a beautiful daughter, just to get my hopes up - to make me forget what I am. And just when I was comfortable with myself, my family, and my life . . . wham! Poor Kuri has to die. It makes me think that, somehow, it was my fault that Kuri didn't survive. If I were fully human, maybe things would have turned out differently . . ."

Gohan interrupted, and though his voice was stern, there was a gentleness running underneath it that he had inherited from his father. "No. It wasn't your fault. Don't ever think that! I know it's not much of a comfort, but there was nothing you could have been or done that would have changed things. I'm sorry if that's painful to hear."

#18 blinked to clear the last of the tears from her eyes, and she nodded almost obediently. "I suppose I know that, but it's hard not to think along those lines."

Gohan tightened his arm on her shoulders for a second, then let go. "I'm sorry I couldn't give you any advice on Kuririn."

"You listened," #18 smiled, something she had not done in weeks, except when dealing with Marron. "Now that I think about it, that's the best thing you could have done for me."

"We can always listen. We're never too busy," Videl smiled at her, then glanced over at Gohan. "Hey, why don't you ask Goku to go talk to Kuririn tomorrow? Maybe he'll be able to help."

Gohan shrugged. "If Dad can't, I don't know who would," he raised a questioning eyebrow in #18's direction. "Is that all right with you?"

"I think that would be a big help to all of us," #18's face was drawn, both from concern and exhaustion. "Son Goku has known Kuririn longer than almost anyone."

"We'll be thinking about you," Videl promised softly, once they were all outside. "I know it must be painful for you all."

The corners of #18's eyes tightened for the briefest of seconds. "It is," she agreed, then levitated into the air. Before she flew away, however, #18 stopped and glanced back over her shoulder at the pair, who stood watching her go.

"Thank you," #18 told them quietly, and the earnesty with which she spoke surprised her. The other two nodded and lifted a hand in salute, and #18 smiled for the second time before leaving.

******

Dimly, through his haze of power, Kuririn became aware that someone was calling his name. He blinked a few times and stopped firing at the ocean, glancing to his left. Goku hovered in the air next to Kuririn, one arm around ChiChi's waist (she was clinging to his neck, looking only a little frightened). "Hey, buddy, can I talk to you?"

Kuririn didn't particularly feel like engaging in friendly conversation, but he didn't want to send Goku away, either. After a moment of indecision, Kuririn shrugged indifferently. "Yeah, whatever. Sure."

They descended to the sand, and ChiChi let go of Goku's neck. "I'll go talk to #18 and Marron," she smiled at Kuririn, then walked past the two friends and into the house.

Goku looked at Kuririn semi-uncomfortably, regarding his friend's grave, saddened countenance. "Are you all right, Kuririn?" he inquired at last.

"Well, my five-day-old son died in my arms," Kuririn snapped, but it wasn't anger that caused him to sound so short. "Aside from that, I guess everything's just perfect."

Goku winced. "I'm sorry. How's your family holding up?"

Something in Kuririn's expression softened. "Marron cries a lot, and #18's pretty down, too. I haven't seen them too often."

"Maybe you should talk to them," Goku suggested gently. "You never know, it might help."

"If you're going to lecture me, too," a flash of betrayal lit Kuririn's eyes, before being swallowed by the pain and anger once more. "I don't need this from you, Goku. I've already got my teacher and my wife telling me how I should feel and how I should act - I don't need it from my best friend!"

Goku hesitated, then reached out a hand and rested it on Kuririn's shoulder. "I know this is hard for you, but you can't just shut out your family. They're hurting just as much as you are, and they need you."

Kuririn all but exploded then, energy level rising rapidly, his face a mixture of pain, rage, and the sense that he felt Goku was exactly like everyone else. "They need me? O sure, Goku, I know they're hurting. If they hurt half as much as I do, they're ready to die right now! What does that prove? Did it ever cross your mind that maybe I need somebody? I, I'm always the one who's there to make everyone feel better . . . I'm the one who has to be strong for everyone, because good ol' Kuririn can take anything life throws at him. Did you ever think that for once I might need someone to turn to? I can't handle this, Goku . . . I'm not made of steel, you know!"

The Saiyajin's eyes reflected the hurt he saw in Kuririn's, and he searched his mind to come up with something that might give Kuririn even the tiniest sense of peace. "They can help you, even if no one else can, since they are feeling the same pain. Kuririn, I know what you're going through, but -"

"Do you?" Kuririn snapped, jerking out from under Goku's hand like it was the stinger of a venomous insect. "Do you really? Tell me, Goku, how many sons do you have?"

A sinking feeling settled in the pit of Goku's stomach. "Two."

Kuririn's lip curled as he bit out, "And how many of them have died?"

"Neither," Goku's reply was soft, for he knew there was nothing more he could do for his friend.

"Well, there you have it," Kuririn shook his head, slowly walking backwards as he did so. "Thanks for all the help, Goku," he shot sarcastically, "I feel so much better now," he spun abruptly on his heel, kicking up a small cloud of sand, and walked back to Kuri's grave. He knelt in front of it, head bowed, and could have been a statue for all the life he exhibited.

Goku could only stand impotently and watch, and something akin to a small sob rose up in his throat. He truly had no idea what he could say, and this knowledge somehow made Goku feel even more helpless than when he had been unable to defeat Vegeta all those years ago.

ChiChi's hands slid around Goku's shoulders, coming to clasp in front of his chest in a reassuring embrace. Goku jumped, surprised he hadn't sensed her come up behind him. "You tried, Goku, but Kuririn has to deal with this his own way. We've never lost a child, so we can't help him."

"Yeah," Goku's face scrunched as he fought to keep his composure. He put his arm around her waist, raising two fingers to his forehead. "Let's go home," the air shimmered, and they disappeared.

Kuririn barely noticed them go.

******

Poor Kuririn . . . listen to Goku! He knows what he's talking about! But you can't really blame him -- I mean, he'd counted on the Dragonballs since Kuri had died, and now even that's gone... I feel awful for what I've done to this poor family!

And there, everyone, was chapter three. Will Kuririn finally talk to his family before it falls apart completely, or will they remain separated for the rest of their lives? How long will #18 be able to handle watching her beloved husband tear himself to pieces like this? I'll try to have chapter 4 (the final one!) up tomorrow, but since it's Sunday, I can't give any promises.