Pavlova scoffs loudly at that, lip curling like she’s disgusted with the thought! “As if I’m just tryna follow you around! Why do you keep showing up in my life like some kind of haunt?!” She stomps towards him, but his shoulders bristle and she grinds to a halt with an indignant flinch; still, though, does she scowl. “Ever since you went fuckin’ crazy on Diecast and nearly got us all killed--!”

   “I DIDN’T wanna fucking BE THERE,” He suddenly reels into a shout with his shoulders and body inclined forward. He feels a fire in his head, in his chest; Pavlova recoils further, but her teeth grit. She stamps a foot. “Tough fuckin’ shit, country bumpkin! You think anyone wants to be a part’a the Frieza Force?!” She doesn’t approach, but it doesn’t matter; it begins not to matter. Gramma can feel it, the simmering turning to a boil. He curls inward on himself, forehead in his palms, sweat beading across his hairline. “You ain’t fuckin’ special just ‘cause you got a little temper tantrum problem!” Shut up, shut up--He’s itching, his fingers are itching, and he’s afraid he’ll start carving up his own flesh if he isn’t careful.

   “Shut--Shut up--,”

   “Now I got a new start here in this dinky little Time Patrol business, and I’m gonna take advantage of it! And none’a your intimidation tactics are gonna get in my way--!”

   That’s not what he wants, That’s not what I want; He takes a shallow breath in.

   “But maybe! I’ll reconsider; ‘cause I don’t know how willin’ I am--” She’s still talking, Gods damned, she’s still talking-- “To be a part of some cult club like this for some God I ain’t ever heard of--” Shut up, Shut Up, “That employs all these fuckin’ FREAKS--!” Prompts a loud, warning grunt in her direction, not unlike a growl, or even a muted scream, but she still points a claw in his face,

   “Just like you--Just like you always been--!”

   And there isn’t much to see beyond white, or maybe red; 

   Something in his skull dully snaps.

,

   Chronoa feels the clammy chill shake her shoulders before Trunks’s call reaches the Time Nest;

   She gasps and her chair clatters back as she darts away from her desk; all at once, there’s nausea, adrenaline, fear and anxiety and dread and she feels lightheaded and this effect is unmistakable, but how? Where? Why? Is it Fu? Is it someone new? What--

   Normally, yes, she would send Time Patrollers to investigate anything treacherous, it’s ill-advised to run into things herself head-first, but this--immediately--isn’t Time Patroller work! 

   This is--pure demonic energy! 

   And no one else can interface with it without risking their own physical and mental integrity in the process--

   So who--?

   Trunks meets her at the gate, fretful himself as he ushers her with a point, “O--Over there, a sudden spike in demonic energy by the Mushroom District--!”

   Frustrated, she’s already off the ground, grabbing Trunks by the collar as she leaves to drag him with her--“Trunks, who is it?” 

  “R--Right! It’s--”

   Chronoa’s eyes fixate on the beacon of climbing bright, heavy red in the distance, and she’s already left him behind, rocketing away as quickly as possible.

,

   Pavlova isn’t sure she’s ever felt such a palpable sense of terror and dread blend in her chest at the same time--

   And it only skyrockets the louder Gramma screams, the more his ki literally disintegrates the terrain around him, the faster she runs away but he’s still right behind her and is this how she dies--?!

   Chronoa reaches skyward, gasping for a moment of focus as she breaches the radius of that sinister ki; in the distance, the sky twinkles gently, a small burst--a planet, a plain and glorified space rock--safe with distance--

   A small hand cinches anywhere it can grab; Gramma’s poor ponytails, she unfortunately has no time to regard, as a shrill and desperate Kai-Kai takes both her and him away.

   Pavlova--collapses, just as Trunks clamors onto the scene. He looks just as disoriented as she does, if not quite as pale and terrified. Just a beat passes between their exchanged looks, and Trunks can’t get a word out to ask if she’s okay before Chronoa is back, between them, wheezing;

   “Miss Chronoa--!” He begins, hurrying over to her side; she manages to stop him with as reassuring of a glance over her shoulder at him as she can, a wry, tired smile as her hands shake, and she descends to the ground with teetering feet. Pavlova looks between them, unsure if she should say something, or simply leave as quickly as possible--but she casts a look down at the ground where Chronoa stands, still black, charred, smog-ridden, like the earth itself is riddled with some sort of poison. Chronoa holds out her hands and takes a deep breath; a shimmer, soft light spreads among the soil...

   Distantly, a dull, but chilling--thunder. rings out. Pavlova’s head whips around, and Trunks looks skyward;

   That new planet is gone as soon as it arrived, in a dazzling, horrible explosion in its place. Pavlova feels her stomach drop.

   She was right, she was right, he’s a freak and she’s right, what the hell are these people thinking, keeping the likes of him around here--?!

   “Stop it.” 

   She spins back around; Chronoa, fists balled at her sides, the ground under her feet--healed and new, what the hell? She’s frowning up at Pavlova from the renewed crater, frustration evident in her brow. “You’re not here to berate and pass judgement on your fellow patrollers, Miss Pavlova.”

   “But he’s a freak!” Should she know better than to speak out against a supposed God? Sure, but this is all quite bat-shit insane, and she’s got no reason to believe this ‘god’s got any worth to her name, if she lets shit like this happen--!

   “He’s a man, with a very unfortunate condition.”

   “’Unfortunate condition’, my ass, capable of tearin’ up a whole galaxy! This entire establishment, up in smoke--!”

   “I won’t let that happen.” Pavlova doesn’t buy it, but such resolve--it prompts her to stop trying at it, less she just provoke more reason for her heart to go into cardiac arrest.. 

   “Gramma is a very specific case--one we’ve been trying to heal ever since he got this way...” She looks to the sky, and concern sews through her lips; “... But now, I...” And presses her hands together, clenches fists in the fabric of her shirt as she mumbles. “This is the worst it’s ever been...”

   There goes Pavlova’s stomach, again, plummeting like a lead weight.

   And Chronoa disappears again, in an instant, leaving Trunks and Pavlova to stew in another awkward silence.

,

   Thrashing,

   Crushing,

   Splitting,

   Tearing,

   It had always boiled and ached, steaming terribly under his skin;

   Encased like a smog, howling like a beast,

   Scratching and screaming and clawing at his skin, let it out, let it out, just let it out and watching it all VANISH,

   He’d choked on restraint and begged for patience and what, for what, all for what,

   It’s all GONE,

   He’d clamored for any sense of--sense, any amount of just a little longer, wait a bit, stop it, wait a bit wait a bit, it’ll pass, it’ll go away; it’ll all be over one day. it’ll all be better one day.

   It’ll all be GONE ONE DAY,

   He’d felt like he was suffocating, 

   And when it all finally burst open,

   Felt cracks and crumble beneath his fingers and under his feet and nothingness, 

   His heart is racing; he can’t hear his pulse in his ears, but is it because it doesn’t beat, or it beats too fast? 

   He sees red; he hears ringing and crashing, trembling of the very core of a planet as it shrivels in the face of his will;

   And isn’t that

   Lovely?

   Clarity reaches his retinas, and feels like he’s suffocating again;

   Chronoa’s hands are on his numb, electric shoulders. He feels new ground under his feet.

   Now, is usually when he would collapse. Meet knees to rock and pass out. That’s what he recalls; that’s all he ever recalls.

   Now?

   Now, why doesn’t he still?

   All he does is blankly stare up, the debris of a once-whole space rock are still scattering in a brilliant and foreboding glow in the sky. Chronoa is saying his name; but he doesn’t even know how to respond, let alone that he should.

   Why doesn’t he ache? Why doesn’t he fall?

   Why does warmth--not of fire, not of hate, not of anger or fury--but some churning and wretched comfort, of all things, why of all things? permeate his chest and settle like something heavy and vile has made a new home, permanent and immobile and now stable like a new heartbeat, deep-seated in his veins?

   He’s relieved, and disgusted, and excited, and appalled; 

   He’s dizzy.