Gokus Second Son

I came into the world screaming, a second cry cutting through the hospital room's quiet hum. Mom—Chi-Chi, I'd learn to call her—was panting, spent, while Dad—Goku, the Goku—stood there grinning like an idiot, cradling my twin, Gohan. The doctor's voice broke the haze, sharp with shock.

"Mrs. Chi-Chi, there's another! Twins!"

Goku's head tilted, his grin stretching wider. "Twins? Two of 'em? That's twice the fun, huh?"

I heard Mom groan before my own wail drowned her out—louder, fiercer, a spark flaring into a blaze. A nurse shoved me into Goku's arms, and he fumbled to hold us both, his goofy laugh rumbling through me. My hair spiked wild, jagged peaks that didn't belong on a newborn, and I caught the doctor's uneasy stare.

"This one's… different. Feels stronger, somehow," he muttered, scratching his chin.

Goku chuckled, scratching the back of his head. "Stronger? Well, he's my kid, ain't he? What's his name, Chi-Chi?"

"Gotex," she rasped, a tired smile breaking through. "Call him Gotex."

Inside this tiny body, my mind roared awake. Reborn. Earth. Dragon Ball. Goku's my dad, Gohan's my twin. This is my shot. I flicked my eyes to Goku—those dumb, bright eyes I'd seen on screens, that grin I'd memorized through manga panels. Power hummed in me, a Saiyan edge begging to sharpen. Stronger than Gohan already. Good. I've got work to do.

Years blurred by. I didn't stumble through childhood—I couldn't. My head was a storm of plans, memories from a past life locked tight behind a blank stare. Gohan played and buried his nose in books under Mom's glare, but I stuck to Goku, yanking his gi, demanding spars. I threw punches and kicks with a polish that left him blinking, moves I'd stolen from a TV screen and honed in secret.

"Geez, Gotex, you're a wild one! Where'd you pick up that spin?" he'd ask, ducking my heel.

"Figured it out," I'd grunt, my hair—sharp, feral, like Super Saiyan 4 Gogeta's—flaring with each strike. I kept my cards close.

By five, the day hit. Kami's Lookout loomed above the clouds, tiles gleaming under the sun. Goku dragged us up to meet his crew, the Z Fighters, like it was some picnic. I walked beside Gohan, his soft curiosity a stark contrast to the steel in my gut. I'd pushed Goku hard these years, sparring till he couldn't slack off. He was tougher now—sharper, stronger—than that old timeline I remembered. My own strength burned hotter, a quiet fire I stoked alone. It's a start. But not enough.

Piccolo stood at the edge, arms crossed, cape snapping like a threat. Krillin, Yamcha, Tien, and Chiaotzu sized us up, a ragtag bunch of egos and fists. Mr. Popo hovered by Kami, silent as a ghost.

"So, these are your rugrats, Goku?" Krillin said, squinting at Gohan's shy grin and my deadpan glare. "One's all sunshine, the other's a storm cloud. What's the deal?"

Goku laughed, mussing Gohan's hair. "Yeah! Gohan's my little bookworm—smart as a whip! Gotex here's a fighter, though. Been throwin' punches at me since he could toddle!"

Piccolo's eyes narrowed, pinning me. "That one's got bite. I can feel it."

I met his stare, unflinching. Grumpy Namekian, same as ever. "You're Piccolo, huh?" I said, voice steady. "Heard you're tough."

He smirked, a rare slip. "Tougher than you, kid. Don't get cocky."

Krillin chuckled, elbowing Yamcha. "He's five and already sizing up Piccolo. Goku, what're you feeding these kids?"

"Lotsa rice!" Goku beamed. "Oh, and Chi-Chi's meat stew—puts hair on your chest!"

Yamcha swaggered forward, flashing a grin that screamed trouble. "Hold up, let's talk about this little wildcat. Gotex, right? That hair's somethin' else—looks like you stuck your finger in a socket!" He flexed, winking. "Bet I could take you, though. What do you say, squirt? One round with the Yamcha-man?"

I flicked my eyes over him—cocky, loud, doomed to be a punching bag. "You'd lose," I said, flat as stone.

He blinked, then laughed, clutching his chest like I'd gutted him. "Oh, ouch! This kid's got claws! What's next, you gonna steal my batting average too?"

Tien crossed his arms, three eyes glinting with a smirk. "He's not wrong, Yamcha. You'd trip over your own ego before he swung."

"Hey!" Yamcha jabbed a finger at Tien. "I'm a pro athlete, pal! I've got moves!"

"Moves that get you knocked out," Krillin shot back, grinning. "Remember that tiger you 'fought' last month? It won."

Chiaotzu piped up, soft but sharp. "The tiger didn't even try."

Laughter erupted, Yamcha turning red but still smirking. I watched, silent, my mind ticking. They're strong. Messy, but strong. I can use this.

Kami shuffled forward, staff tapping the tiles. "Enough chatter. Goku, your sons are… unusual. This one—" he nodded at me—"carries a weight. A purpose."

Goku tilted his head, scratching his nose. "Purpose? He's just a kid! Right, Gotex?"

I shrugged, hair catching the wind. "I like training. Keeps me sharp." And breathing when they land.

Piccolo snorted. "Sharp's one word for it. He's got eyes like a hawk—misses nothing."

Krillin leaned in, stage-whispering, "Think he's plotting to take over the Lookout? Kami, better hide the good snacks!"

"Mr. Popo already ate those," Chiaotzu deadpanned, pulling a rare chuckle from Tien.

Yamcha slung an arm around Krillin, undeterred. "Nah, he's just mad I'd win in a coolness contest. Right, Gotex? You can't beat this hair—or my charm!"

"Try me," I said, dry as dust. A smirk flickered, then vanished.

Goku clapped his hands, clueless as ever. "Aw, you guys are gettin' along already! Let's spar—see what my boys can do!"