I don't own DBZ. Honest. Really. I don't own it, and frankly, if I did, I would be a whole lot richer than I'm not. And I wouldn't have to write this stupid disclaimer.
And, for that matter, no one's paying me to write this. I just am. Don't Sue me - I have nothing. At all.
Megs is not a Mary Sue. At least, she's not suppossed to be.
Megs climbed onto the city bus. No one was quite sure what her whole name was,
she simply was known to everyone as Megs. With her short orange hair and friendly yet
mysterious air, all that knew her were simply willing to let her be the way that she
wanted to be. And everyone knew her. The bus driver nodded at her as she climbed on,
and people in the seats caught her eyes with usually friendly looks. She ignored, as usual,
the glare of the spiky haired man who always sat in the back-he had a perpetual glare,
and she was pretty sure he couldn't manage any other expression.
Settling into her usual seat, she flicked on her discman, the sweet strains of
traditional Egyptian festival music filling her ears. She reached into her backpack,
removing a book about the life of Tutankhamen, and settled into reading. She was so
preoccupied that she didn't notice a freakishly tall man enter the bus. He wore a long gray
trench coat, and settled into an empty seat near the front. He immediately bent and
seemed to be very preoccupied with the bottom of the seat. The other patrons simply
assumed he was a little simple, and politely looked away. At the next stop, he rose and
left, and so Megs never saw him.
A mere twenty minutes later, after many of the original passengers had gotten off
and many new ones had taken their place, Megs head jerked up. Something was terribly
and horribly wrong. She didn't know why or what, just that something was. She stood to
find out what it was, but she didn't get a chance. Because that was when the world
At least, that's what it felt like to her. The seat 3 ahead of her had just erupted in a
ball of flame, the bus had lurched, falling onto its side, and she could feel it skidding
down the hill. She, like all the other passengers, had lost her footing with the falling bus,
and lay now on what had once been her side window.
Her head was in great pain, and when she reached up to touch it, she found blood
on her hand. Her shirt, her prized 'Treasures of Egypt' shirt, was ripped and torn, singed
from the exploding ball of flames that had engulfed the front half of the bus. All in all, as
her head sank to the floor, sighing in resigned defeat, things didn't look too good.
And then something moved. Outside of the bus, she felt, then there was a terrific
renting sound, and the bus slowed to a halt. And then the window above her shattered.
Shielding her face with her arms, Megs looked up. A man stood on the side of the bus,
looking down at them. He was shillouetted, brilliant sunlight streaming past him on one
side, raging inferno on the other. Like some creature born of either Heaven or Hell.
With cat-like grace, he jumped down, landing on the balls of his feet,
immediately beside her. Long light-purple hair swirled around his face, and Megs
blinked. "Are you...an angel?" she whispered.
He looked at her, startled. It was as though he hadn't realized she was there
before, but now was intensely interested. "No." He said, crouching to look at her. "I'm
not. Are you hurt?"
Megs tentatively tested muscles. "My head hurts, and I think I twisted an ankle.
He shook his head. "First I have to get everyone out of here. On the count of
three-" He reached under her, and on the count of three, hoisted her up off the ground.
Carefully, he climbed up and onto the seats, then up through the broken window. He
jumped down to the pavement gracefully, then sprinted across the road. Crowds were
gathering, but he ignored them, placing Megs gently on a park bench. "I'll be back," he
said gently, then sprinted back to the bus.
Megs watched with growing admiration as the mysterious man helped everyone
out of the bus. Officials were worried that the gas would explode because of the fire, and
so needed to get the people out as quickly as possible. He was getting them out faster
than any of the rescue workers.
At last, the last person pulled from the wreckage, he walked purposefully back to
the park bench. Someone had given Megs a check over, and so her head was now neatly
bandaged, and her main concern, other than finding out about her rescuer, was the
problem now of her mostly shredded shirt. She'd managed to maintain her modesty by
snagging a blanket, which she held around herself protectively.
"Hey," he said, interrupting her thoughts, sitting on the bench beside her. "You all
Megs smiled. "I'm okay, but my shirt's seen better days."
He glanced at her, and she blushed, pulling the blanket tighter. "Here," he smiled,
and with a single smooth motion, pulled his black tanktop over his head, holding it
forward. "I'll hold the blanket. You can cover yourself up."
Megs gaped at his bare chest, incredibly well built, but swallowed, took the
tanktop, and, under the cover of the tent he made with the blanket, changed shirts.
"Thanks," she said gratefully. "Look, I really ought to be going home..."
He smiled graciously. "I'll take you. You look to shaken to walk anyway."
"What do you-woah!" She gasped as he scooped her back up in his arms, and
headed down the street. "Do you like carrying people or something?"
He just grinned.
"Look, I'm Megs. You are-"
"Trunks," she repeated. "Kinda cool. Unique. I like it."
They traveled in relative silence, Megs tired from the ordeal. Her eyelids began to
droop, and soon, she fell asleep, head resting on Trunks' chest. He didn't take her home-
mostly because he had no idea where it was-but went to his own apartment. He set her
gently on the bed, then paused.
In the fading reds of the setting sun, he leaned over, violet hair swirling around
his face, and kissed her forehead, very gently. Like the touch of a butterfly, the gentle
action didn't wake the sleeping girl. Smiling, Trunks turned, and walked out.
"Sleep tight," he whispered as he left.