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introvertllux · 11 hours

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Chrono Heart (Future Trunks X Black!OC)

*I DO NOT OWN/CLAIM TO OWN ANYTHING IN RELATION TO DBZ. I ONLY CLAIM THE ORIGINAL STORY IDEA AND BLACK!OC IN THIS STORY!*

Chapter 1: The Relic and the Reawakening

The remnants of Dr. Gero’s lab were a graveyard of twisted metal and shattered dreams, a monument to the hubris of a man who played god with circuits and steel. Hidden beneath this forsaken ruin, a capsule hissed open, and from its depths, a figure emerged—Axa. With skin like polished ebony, eyes that shimmered with the golden light of a thousand captured stars, and hair that cascaded down in an untamed torrent, she was a sight to behold—beauty crafted by ambition, innocence shaped by design.

:readmore:

She stood, hesitantly, in the dim light of her metallic tomb, a stark contrast to the vividness of her form. Her limbs moved with an elegance that was almost haunting, yet her expression held the innocence of a child looking out upon the world for the first time.

Unbidden, Axa's body propelled her through the labyrinth of the city, every calculation in her head leading her to an encounter she did not understand. It was as if an invisible hand guided her to a serene park, where the familiar silhouette of Android 18 stood, lost in the simplicity of feeding ducks at the pond—a moment of peace in a life so often marked by conflict.

Axa’s presence cast a shadow over the tranquility, and 18 turned, her eyes widening in shock and recognition. "Axa? Is it really you?" she gasped, the breadcrumbs slipping from her fingers.

Their reunion was explosive—a symphony of fists and flashes of shared history. As they sparred, 18, amidst parries and takedowns, called out to the essence of the girl she once knew.

"Remember when we sparred with 16 in the orchard, the cherry blossoms falling around us like snow?" she grunted, dodging a swift punch. "Or the time we snuck into the city, 17 dared us to ride the rollercoaster and you laughed until you cried?"

Each word struck Axa deeper than any physical blow could, unlocking the sealed doors of her memory. "And that night, the four of us lay in the grass, making shapes out of stars, dreaming of freedom," 18 continued, her voice laced with nostalgia, even as she blocked a kick. "But then you were gone. Gero said you were defective, but you were just... you were just Axa. You were just a little girl, and I... we, I should have done something."

Tears spilled from Axa's eyes, liquid diamonds trailing down her face, an alien sensation that stopped her cold. Her hands came up to her face, fingers trembling as she touched the moisture with wonder. "What... what is this?" she whispered, her voice breaking.

"It's crying, Axa," 18 replied with a bittersweet chuckle, the fight draining from her. "It happens when you're sad... or happy... or even when you laugh so hard, you can't stop. It means you're alive."

Axa's golden gaze, now dulled by confusion and sorrow, met 18's. "I don't... I don't understand," she said, a lost child wrapped in the shell of a machine.

"I know," 18 said, stepping forward to wrap an arm around her. "I forgot to search for you when I found my own life. But now I’m here, and I'll help you. Let me show you the life I've built. You’ll fit right in. Krillin, my husband, Marron, our daughter—they'll love you."

The promise of a family warmed something inside Axa, a spark of belonging that she didn't know she needed.

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The scene shifted to the familial home, where the spark was met with a torrent of fear and misunderstanding.

The home that once held warmth and laughter was now a battlefield of words and emotions. The cozy living room, with its family photos and children's drawings, became the arena. Krillin's face was flushed with a mix of protective fear and incandescent rage. "18, how in the world could you think this was okay? Bringing her into our home without even a word to me?" His voice shook the very foundations of their sanctuary, a volume reserved for life-and-death battles, not familial disputes.

"You're not getting it, Krillin!" 18 shot back, her own voice a force to be reckoned with. "You think I can't see danger? I know danger. I've been danger. But she—" 18 jabbed a finger towards Axa, "—is just lost. We owe her this!"

Marron, with the blissful ignorance of childhood, had wandered over to Axa, offering a small stuffed dinosaur with a smile. "Do you wanna play with Mr. Dino?" she had asked, her voice a sing-song note in the dissonant symphony of the adults' conflict.

Krillin's eyes darted from Marron to Axa, and with a speed that betrayed his martial prowess, he scooped Marron into his arms. "Marron, sweetie, why don't you go play in your room, okay?" His words were gentle with his daughter, but when his gaze swung back to Axa, they were steel blades. "Stay away from her," he snapped at Axa. "We don't know you, what you're capable of—what if you're programmed to…to…"

His words trailed off, but the accusation hung heavily in the air, an invisible smog choking the room. Axa, who stood like a statue wrought from onyx, felt each word strike her. Her hands, which moments ago had explored the texture of the child's toy, now hung limply at her sides. The shine in her golden eyes dulled, a gloss of pain over the brightness.

"Krillin," 18's voice cracked like a whip, her anger transforming into something fierce and protective. "Listen to yourself! She’s not a threat! How can you judge her like this?"

The silence that followed was suffocating. Axa's soft, disbelieving sobs were the only sound, a heartbreaking melody that seemed to wrap around the room. She blinked rapidly, her human-like innocence clashing with her android perfection as she attempted to process the whirlwind of rejection and anger.

"I… I don't want to be a problem," Axa stammered out, her voice a mere whisper but slicing through the tension. "I didn't mean to cause trouble. I'm sorry."

Krillin, his face softening for a moment at Axa's words, struggled with the turmoil inside him. His duty to protect his family warring with the empathy he had learned from his wife. "18, I…," he started, but the words tangled, a mess of emotion and duty.

"No," 18 interrupted, her eyes glistening with unshed tears of frustration. "No, Krillin. She's not just some android. She's Axa. Remember that. She's not the past; she’s someone who needs us now."

In the quiet that followed, the trio stood, the balance of their world shifted, as they each considered the weight of what it meant to be family, to be human, or something akin to it. Axa, still caught in the eye of the storm, dared to hope for a harbor in this tempest—a place where she could anchor her heart.

The turmoil in the room reached a crescendo, a tidal wave of emotion that crashed over Axa with overwhelming force. As Krillin and Android 18's argument continued, Axa's mind began to fracture under the strain. She clutched at her temples, her golden eyes flickering erratically as memories—long suppressed—surged to the surface.

She was small again, diminutive and human, watching through the bars of a crib as giants in white coats and stern faces argued loudly above her. The cacophony of their voices was terrifying, a discordant symphony that crescendoed into an unbearable din. Words like "potential" and "failure" were thrown back and forth, volleying over her head like some high-stakes game she could not comprehend.

Her breath hitched, a robotic mimicry of a panic attack, and her body began to seize up. Her limbs locked in place, and the glow in her eyes sputtered like a dying star. "System… overload…" she managed to gasp out before collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut, her form going limp and unresponsive on the floor.

"18, we need to do something!" Krillin's voice was now tinged with fear for Axa, the protective instinct he felt for all living beings—especially those under his roof—kicking in.

18 knelt beside Axa, her fingers hovering over the android's inert body. Her heart, though not flesh and blood, ached with a mix of fear and protectiveness. "Dammit," she cursed softly, her usual composure fraying at the edges.

Krillin ran a hand through his hair, his eyes darting from his wife to the still figure on the floor. "Maybe… we should take her to see Bulma. She's dealt with… this kind of thing before."

Android 18's eyes narrowed at the suggestion. "Bulma has a good heart, but she's got that scientist's curiosity. She'll want to dissect every part of Axa's programming," she said, her voice a growl of resistance. "And Vegeta…" she trailed off, a scowl creasing her features at the thought of the Saiyan prince's unpredictable nature.

Krillin nodded slowly, understanding his wife's concerns. "We don't have to tell everyone, just Bulma. She'll know what to do," he insisted, his tone imploring. "Vegeta won't lay a finger on her—I'll deal with him if I have to."

The two locked eyes, a silent conversation passing between them. It was a gamble, but Axa needed help that they couldn't give. With a heavy heart, 18 agreed. "Fine. But we're not leaving her side. Not for a second."

Carefully, they gathered Axa's motionless form, her weight a testament to the gravity of their situation. Together, they stepped into the cool evening air, the weight of Axa's fate a heavy shroud upon their shoulders as they made their way to Capsule Corporation, and into the uncertain future that awaited them.

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More on Axa (Pronounced: Axe-e-ah or Ahh-x-ah)

*Apologies for inconsistent art styles. I utilized Art breeder. Unfortunately I don't see many resources to help create black!Ocs in consistent styles and diverse poses out there. If you know of any please let me know! As you continue reading the story imagine her in the DBZ art style. Thank you!*

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Taglist!

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introvertllux · 2 months

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Meet the Wayne’s Chapter 3: Maternal Ties and the Shadow of Gotham

I DON’T claim the rights to batman only the black!OC. Also this is pure fiction and NOT my thoughts on marriage at all.

Scarlett P.O.V.

Despite living a life without a mother and engaging in activities far removed from what a traditional mother might do, I've always felt a profound pull towards motherhood. It was as if I was inherently maternal, destined to embrace the role with open arms. Yet, under the shadow of Ra's al Ghul, such dreams seemed distant, almost forbidden. Isolated within the confines of his domain, my world was restricted, my interactions limited. Discussing and acknowledging the natural teenage yearnings felt dangerous—punishable, even. Among the few women there, Talia—Ra al Ghul's daughter—was the only one close to my age yet far from being a confidante. I was an intruder to her, not for stealing her father's affection but because I was there at all. She saw me as a rival, though I never viewed Ra's in the paternal light she did. My mind was often elsewhere, lost in daydreams of everyday life outside these walls—friendships, romance, and the simple act of holding someone's hand.

Those dreams seemed like fantasies, unreachable and fanciful. Yet, here I am, years later, a mother to five incredible boys. My sons, each unique in their strength, humor, and brilliance, are the anchors that keep me grounded amidst the turmoil of my life with Bruce. They are my priority, the driving force behind every decision I make, including my disputes with Bruce over his relentless pursuit of justice as Batman. His obsession with patrolling Gotham has strained our relationship, but more importantly, it has impacted our boys. They witness our conflicts, absorbing the tension and reflecting on their individual bonds with their father. Bruce has his flaws; he can be overly strict and sometimes distant. Yet, when he's present, he's an inspiring figure—empowering, affectionate, and constantly pushing them toward greatness. He may not be perfect, but he's constantly evolving, striving to be a better father.

Our home, a nexus of love, conflict, and unspoken fears, bears witness to the struggles and triumphs of a family not quite like any other. For all his strength and resolve, Bruce grapples with the dualities of his existence—between the man and the mask, the father and the vigilante. His physical and emotional absences leave a void that I strive to fill, weaving the fragile threads of family unity with each day that passes.

In their resilience, the boys adapt and grow, each carving their own path under the weight of the Wayne legacy. Their struggles and triumphs are a daily reminder of the complexities of our lives—a life built on the foundations of sacrifice, secrets, and an unwavering commitment to each other.

In the quiet moments, when the chaos of our lives settles into a rare peace, I reflect on the journey that has brought me here. From the confines of the League's domain to the expansive heart of the Wayne family, my life has been a testament to fate's unpredictable, winding paths.

Motherhood, with all its challenges and joys, has been my redemption, my salvation from a past marred by darkness. It has taught me about the power of love, the strength of family, and the endless possibilities of embracing one's true self. Standing at the precipice of this life I have built, I am grateful for the unexpected gift of motherhood and the five remarkable boys who call me Mom.

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Third Person P.O.V.

The Wayne Manor kitchen was a flurry of activity, its usual solemnity replaced by the chaotic energy of the Wayne sons preparing for the day's event. Amidst the sizzle of breakfast on the stove, Scarlett found herself not only as the orchestrator of the morning meal but also as the mediator of an unfolding debate among her boys.

"I don't see why I have to wear a suit. It's not like the orphans are going to care what I'm wearing," Jason grumbled, tugging at the collar of his shirt with a scowl that seemed permanently etched on his face whenever formal attire was mentioned.

"It's about showing respect, Jason. We represent the Wayne family; we should look the part," Dick interjected, ever the voice of reason, his own suit fitting him like a second skin—a testament to his comfort in their world of galas and public appearances.

"Yeah, but why can't we show respect in jeans and a tee? At least we'd be comfortable," Tim chimed in, pushing his glasses up his nose as he eyed the suit laid out for him with undisguised disdain.

Duke, the newest addition to the brood, seemed less bothered by the dress code, though he couldn't resist joining in the banter. A little color wouldn't hurt. These suits make us look like we're attending a funeral, not celebrating an opening."

Damian, the youngest and often the most vocal about his dislikes, was surprisingly quiet, his usual complaints about 'draconian dress codes' absent as he meticulously adjusted his tie—a more miniature replica of the one Bruce often wore. It was a rare moment of conformity from the boy, who was usually anything but.

Scarlett, flipping pancakes with one hand and managing to look entirely at ease amidst the morning chaos, couldn't help but smile at her son's antics. "Gentlemen, you all look handsome, and wearing a suit won't kill you. It's one afternoon, and then you can come home and change into whatever you'd like."

"But Mom, it's not just the suits. It's the ties, the shoes—it's like being strangled by your own clothes," Jason argued, his dramatics earning a chuckle from his brothers.

"Jason's right," Damian finally spoke up, his voice betraying a hint of solidarity with his brother. "It's archaic, and it's uncomfortable. Father insists on these traditions without considering practicality."

Scarlett turned, offering a plate of pancakes to her sons as a peace offering. "Bruce wants this day to be special for the orphanage's family and children. Wearing a suit is a small part to play in making today memorable. And Damian, your father considers many things, including how the Wayne family presents itself. It's part of our responsibility."

The boys exchanged looks, their arguments deflating under the weight of their mother's logic and the allure of breakfast. As they gathered around the table, their banter continued, lighter now, interspersed with plans for the day and the roles they each would play at the reopening.

Scarlett watched them, her heart full. These moments were what she cherished most—her family united not just by blood or name but by the shared experiences that bound them closer with each passing day. She knew the importance of today's event extended beyond the orphanage; it was a testament to their resilience, their unity, and the legacy they were building, one day, one suit at a time.

As breakfast concluded and they prepared to leave, Scarlett felt a surge of pride looking at her sons. Despite their grumbling, they were ready, each embodying the strength and grace of the Wayne legacy. Today was more than an event; it was a reaffirmation of their commitment to Gotham, each other, and the ideals Bruce and Scarlett worked so hard to instill in them.

As the Wayne family convoy wound its way towards the heart of Gotham, the tension that had bubbled over breakfast seemed to dissipate, replaced by a shared sense of purpose. The sleek black cars blended seamlessly with the city's rhythm, a silent testament to the Wayne legacy that extended far beyond the corporate skyscrapers and into the very fabric of Gotham's community. Inside the lead car, Scarlett found herself sandwiched between Bruce and Alfred, the latter having taken on the role of driver for the day. The boys, divided between the vehicles, continued their debate over the necessity of formal wear, their voices a distant murmur over the car's communication system.

Bruce, catching Scarlett's eye, offered a small, appreciative smile. "They'll understand one day," he said, his voice a blend of resignation and hope. "The importance of today… it's more than just an appearance. It's about setting an example, showing Gotham that the Wayne family stands with them."

Scarlett nodded, her hand finding Bruce's. "They will. They're more like you than they'd care to admit. Strong, determined, and with a heart for Gotham's people. Today will be a good day." Their arrival at the orphanage was met with fanfare, with the community turning out in force to celebrate the reopening. The Wayne family, stepping out of their cars, were immediately swarmed by reporters, city officials, and excited children, all eager to glimpse Gotham's most prominent family.

Despite their earlier complaints, the boys moved with a grace and poise that belied their years. Dick took the lead, his natural charisma making him an easy favorite among the attendees. With his characteristic scowl softened for the day, Jason was surrounded by a group of older kids, his tales of motorcycle escapades drawing awed whispers. Ever the strategist, Tim conversed with city planners and philanthropists, discussing future projects and investments. Duke became an instant hit with the younger children with his infectious smile, leading games, and laughter. Maintaining a stoic facade, Damian nonetheless found himself drawn to a quiet corner where a few shy orphans observed the festivities from a distance.

Scarlett felt pride as she watched her family mingle and engage with the community. Today was a reminder of their collective strength, their ability to transcend the challenges and scrutiny that often accompanied their public lives. It reaffirmed their commitment to making Gotham a better place, one child, one family at a time. The jubilation of the day, palpable in the air filled with laughter and celebratory voices, was abruptly shattered. Moments before the chaos, Bruce stood at the podium, the crowd hushed in anticipation of his speech. The Wayne family stood to the side, representing unity and support.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us on this momentous day," Bruce began, his voice carrying over the assembled crowd. "Today is not just about reopening the doors of the orphanage; it's about reopening our hearts and extending our hands to those in need."

He paused, glancing towards Scarlett and their sons with a tender smile. "My family stands with me today as witnesses and pillars of our commitment towards this cause. Each of them, in their own way, contributes to the mission we've embarked on — to ensure that no child in Gotham feels abandoned."

Bruce's gaze swept over the crowd, his presence commanding yet warm. "This orphanage is more than a building; it's a beacon of hope, a promise of a better tomorrow. We dedicate ourselves to this promise, not just with words but with action. With support, care, and love, we can change lives."

As he spoke of future initiatives and the importance of community involvement, the atmosphere was charged with a sense of purpose and optimism. The Wayne family, listening intently, couldn't help but feel proud of their legacy, a legacy beyond the capes and the headlines, grounded in real, tangible change.

"And so," Bruce concluded, "we look forward to a future where every child knows they have a place to call home, a family to belong to, and a community that cares. Together, we can make Gotham a beacon of hope for all."

Applause erupted, echoing off the walls of the newly renovated building, symbolizing the new beginnings Bruce had articulated so passionately. The Wayne family joined in the applause, their hearts full, unaware of the looming shadow about to descend upon their moment of triumph.

When it came, the explosion was sudden and deafening, a brutal punctuation to Bruce's message of hope. Her instincts overriding her shock, Scarlett reacted with a speed born of necessity. Her powers, long kept hidden, flared to life, weaving a protective cocoon around her sons as debris and chaos reigned around them. The force of the blast sent her tumbling, darkness claiming her as she fought to stay conscious.

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Awakening in the infirmary wing, the sterile white of the room starkly contrasting with the vivid nightmare of the explosion, Scarlett's first thought was of her family. Alfred's presence, a steady constant, brought a measure of comfort, but his news did little to ease the dread coiling in her stomach.

"The boys are safe, thanks to you," he reassured, though the worry in his eyes spoke volumes. "But, Miss Scarlett, the symbols... they've spread."

As consciousness slowly crept back to Scarlett, her first coherent thought was a piercing fear for her sons. Panic clawed at her chest, her breaths coming in short, rapid gasps as she attempted to rise, only to be met with the firm, steadying hands of Alfred.

"Where are they? Are they safe?" The urgency in her voice was palpable, her eyes wild with maternal fear. With his ever-calm demeanor, Alfred reassured her, "They're safe, Miss Scarlett. I personally saw to their safety. They're with Master Bruce."

Her mind, however, couldn't find peace until she saw them with her own eyes. Then, the memories began to flood, memories of how Alfred first discovered her secret.

It was a late evening, months ago, when Alfred had walked in on her tending to a wound on her shoulder — a wound that should have been fatal yet was healing at an unnatural pace, the skin around it glowing faintly with intricate symbols. She remembered the shock on Alfred's face, the way he froze, a tray of tea in his hands, now forgotten.

"Miss Scarlett, what on earth...?" he'd begun, his voice a mix of concern and disbelief.

She had no choice then but to confide in him, to reveal the origins of her powers and her past with Ra's al Ghul. "Alfred, what you see... it's a part of me I've hoped to keep hidden. These symbols are not just scars but a map to a barely understood power. A power Ra's al Ghul sought to control."

The conversation that followed was long and fraught with revelations. Scarlett explained her fear of Bruce's reaction, knowing his distrust of anything related to magic or the supernatural. Alfred, for his part, listened with a growing sense of foreboding, understanding the weight of the secret Scarlett bore.

The fear for her sons momentarily subsided in the infirmary, replaced by a new wave of panic. "Bruce... is he okay? He wasn't near the explosion, was he?" Her voice cracked with the question, the thought of Bruce injured — or worse — reigniting the terror within her.

"Master Bruce is unharmed," Alfred assured her, but the comfort his words were meant to provide was overshadowed by Scarlett's growing dread over the spreading symbols. "But we must keep him from seeing these symbols, Alfred. He cannot know of this magic within me."

The decision to keep Bruce in the dark had been mutual between Scarlett and Alfred, but the secrecy now felt like a chasm widening between her and her husband. Alfred's worry was evident, knowing the strain such secrets could inflict on a family already navigating the complexities of their dual lives.

Bruce's confusion turned to anger when he was barred from entering the infirmary, Alfred standing firm at the door. "Why can't I see her? What are you hiding from me?" His voice, usually calm and commanding, was now laced with betrayal and concern.

The situation escalated quickly, with Bruce's demands to see Scarlett met with Alfred's unwavering refusal, guided by his promise to protect her secret. The tension reached a boiling point, the air charged with unspoken accusations and the weight of untold truths.

Scarlett could hear the muffled exchange from her bed, her heart aching with each of Bruce's angered pleas. The fear of losing Bruce, of fracturing their family with her secrets, was a specter looming more significant than any physical threat she had faced. In that moment, she realized the actual cost of her powers — not the danger they posed to her, but the potential they had to unravel the very fabric of her family.

As Alfred finally returned to her side, their heavy silence spoke volumes. The path ahead was fraught with uncertainty and the inevitable confrontation with Bruce. But for now, Scarlett focused on regaining her strength, preparing for difficult conversations, and bracing for the impact of her secrets on her family's future.

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