Dragonball Fanon Wiki

RIP Akira Toriyama. The legend of your being will never be forgotten.


Dragonball Fanon Wiki

Trunks walked down the street, poised tall and proud as he absently pushed his glasses farther on his nose with his middle finger, shoving his other hand into the pocket of his suit. It was winter time and the air was nip; Trunks could see his breath in the cold air. He shivered a little and sped up his pace even if it was nearly senseless for him to walk anywhere anymore. Being president of Capsule Corporation allowed him to drive, fly, ride or even sail just about anywhere he wanted. Hell, the business made him a billionaire, so if he needed to go somewhere, he would get there in style.

Yet, he still enjoyed walking a little when he found time in his schedule, and that was rare. He took his hands out of his pockets and blew on them as they were frigid. His glasses were fogging up as the heat from his body mixed with the cold air, so he took them off, stopping for a few seconds to wipe them clean. He pressed them back to his face again and continued on his way.

Life had settled itself into a simple ritual of waking up every morning, going to work, coming home, sleeping, and starting the ritual again. He had simply fallen into the rhythmic pattern. There was little else to do. Hell, there was -nothing- else to do. After he, Pan and Gokuu had located the galactic Dragon Balls, defeated Bebi, and returned Gokuu to his rightful age, he hadn’t done anything but file paperwork. Pan occasionally came to visit him, gushing news and bringing a host of flowers or other such none sense, but he rarely saw her more than that. He figured she, like most other women in the world, adored him.

He knew he was good looking. Even in his thick glasses he was simply irresistible. He smugly smiled knowing that women of all ages turned their heads when he passed by, it was like he was a God of some sort. A God of Beauty. He serenely mused.

Funny, he didn’t miss his adventurous life much. It was too time consuming and he found it unbelievable that he actually risked his life in battle. What if he’d gotten scarred? He touched an icy hand to his cheek, conjuring an image of the scarred Yamucha’s face to mind. His sensuous face, his most prominent feature, might have been damaged beyond repair in any of those fights. He no longer could afford that risk; he valued his looks more than anything: they were what got him what he wanted.

His stupid little trip with Pan and Gokuu had been pointless as well. While he was gone, Goten had picked up in his place. The women he’d been getting had fled to Goten in his absence. He’d spend a year with two snotty kids for crying out loud! What an utter waste of time!

That had been years ago though, and he had since reclaimed everything Goten, his so-called best-friend, had snatched from under him while he’d been off trying to help Gokuu. Goten’s dad! Goten was such a selfish little snot.

Trunks snorted thinking about how dense Goten was. Pan had more sense that he did, and Trunks didn’t value Pan with a lot of sense. Trunks continued walking, reflecting on Bulma, his mother. Certainly she hadn’t minded his change in attitude towards fighting: she never would have trusted anyone more with the progression of Capsule Corp. Her son, following in her footsteps. It almost made him smile. He had to admit, being president was certainly safer than battling it out in war. Not to mention, no one threaten the people of Earth anymore. What with a race of Sayiajin, and demi-Sayiajin living on the planet, any attacks would be futile.

Trunks grew tired of walking, but not only bored, but also physically tired. He had to admit he’d let himself go pretty badly. He’d found no reason to train, and simply decided to stop one day, much to his fathers chagrin. Other things in life he’d always done became irrelevant to him, and he just quit doing them. His father accused him of denying his Sayiajin blood, but Trunks had merely shrugged. He wanted to be human, not some alien crossbreed.

Neither his mother or father could understand his change towards his Sayiajin blood. He himself sometimes didn’t really understand it. It most likely had to do with that asshole Goten: since their last verbal fight, he’d tried to distance himself as far from Goten as he could. If denying his Sayiajin blood was included in the distancing, then he was more than happy to disown it.

Trunks realized he’d stopped walking; he seemed to do that sort of thing a lot when he thought deeply of Goten. Damn you, Goten. He angrily growled to himself.

Back stabber; that was all he could say about Goten. He’d claimed to be Trunks’s best friend for all his life, but that was just a fraud. Trunks turned his back for a mere year, and Goten completely took advantage of their friendship and his trust. He proceeded to walk, hunching his shoulders up from the cold.

He hadn’t spoken to Goten in almost a year. He hadn’t seen any of the Son family other than Gohan and Pan, and he’d only seen Gohan because the man worked for him. He knew now why his father had disliked Gokuu for so long. He hadn’t understood for along time, and maybe even now he hated them for different reasons, but the entire Son family was a bunch of cunning, lying, cheating asses that he wanted nothing to do with.

After risking his life so many times to find those dammed Dark Dragon Balls to restore Gokuu to his proper age, the stupid Sayiajin had hardly given him a thank you. He only wished that they hadn’t found the Dragon Balls or at least wished after he found them that Bebi hadn’t taken his family over so quickly. Then again, he wouldn’t have been considered a hero when he returned Gokuu to age. Not that it mattered, since the stupid Dragon Balls got stolen by Bebi anyway.

Ah, the trials and errors of life.

A drop of wetness made him direct his eyes upward, and he silently cursed as he noticed dark storm clouds above him. Now they were releasing icy cold rain, and he here was without an umbrella. He swore at his misfortune; if anyone saw him in the rain he’d be so humiliated!

He thought about breaking into a run, but knew he’d tire too soon. That bothered him a little, so perhaps he had let himself get too out of shape. He shrugged the thought off: now was hardly the time to think of that. He had to get out of this rain before his hair got totally wrecked.

Back in the relative dry and safe housing of Capsule Corp., Trunks sighed. He was lucky to have gotten out of the rain as quickly as he had. Fortunately he hadn’t been too far from the company, and no one had seen him in the rain; at least no one important.

Trunks walked to the elevator and took the lift to his quarters. He’d still gotten slightly wet, and couldn’t fathom walking around in soiled clothing. He made a quick change into a similar suit, and donned it with a matching tie. He looked himself over in the body length mirror in his room.

Simply stunning! I don’t know how you do it! Trunks thought as he admired himself in the mirror. He turned around and smiled, pleased at his backside as well. Flawless. I don’t even have a ‘bad side’. He proudly thought.

He walked away from the mirror after a few more minutes of self gloating and set about observing his room, as he oft did. The place was spotless and as beautiful as he was. He inwardly smiled at the way the double bed was made: the sheets crisp, almost as if drawn to perfection and not a wrinkle or crease to be seen.

His desk was clutter free, empty of all items save a small container used to hold pencils and other utensils which rested on the desks shiny surface. His walls were bare, too except for the rack above his bed. It was simple rack of highly polished oak wood, used for nothing more than displaying a sword. He cocked his head, thinking back about how he hadn’t use that sword in quite a while. While the metallic blade still gleamed, he was worried about it collecting dust. It was too high for the regular cleaning machines to reach, and from where he was standing, he could already see a thin layer of grim on the blades edge, as well as on the orange-red sheath that hung below. He shuttered at the thought of such filth in his room.

It’ll have to come down. He though emotionlessly. Can’t have it destroying the harmonious cleanliness of my room, can I? He added inwardly, stepping towards his bed.

As much as he hated doing it, the only way to reach the sword was to stand upon his bed, and there was no way on Earth that he was going to stand on his bed in boots. So, he causally sat down and slipped off the boots to reveal socks that were crisp and ironed. He set his boots uniformly by the closet door so that they would be readily accessible when he needed them again.

He got to his knees on his bed, and then wobbly stood on his feet. He gently lifted the sword off the rack with one hand while the other one reached for the swords’ sheath resting in a slot beneath the sword. Once his goal was obtained he carefully got back onto his knees, and flopped backwards onto his rear. He moved down to the floor until he was sitting cross-legged in the center of his room.

The sword was, indeed, covered in a layer of dust and it repulsed him that such a thing had existed in his room so long without him noticing before. Out in the open as well, where any curious eye could have seen it. He just hopped no one had seen it.

He felt the sword’s handle in his hands, recalling how many years it’d been since he had donned the sword. The grip still had a familiar feel to it, yet remotely foreign. He closed his eyes and tried to invision himself in combat with this deadly weapon, and could not. It was not he who once wielded this fighting tool, but was someone else. A boy, who once took pride in his Sayiajin blood, someone who once relished in fighting, and in the joy of killing; in being Sayiajin.

Trunks shook his head, knowing that was someone else, not who he was now. He doubted that he could even hold the sword properly anymore, let alone use it to kill again. He looked at its dust coated blade, knowing that some things die. His fighting self had, and along with it had gone this sword. It was a wonder he had kept it up and displayed this long. He gently dropped the sword back into its sheath and decided to take it to be put away elsewhere. Slowly he put his boots back on, thinking more as he did about how much he hated thinking.

He didn’t want to remember his previous life just as much as he didn’t want to be related to the Sayiajin. The Saiyajin race of beings that originally intended to destroy and conquer this world was not something he admired. He’d killed more than his fair share of people.

No. He shouldn’t start thinking about that. That hadn’t been him, because he was not like that. He was a peacemaker, not a fighter. He couldn’t have done all he remembered doing. Yet, even now his memory faltered. The events in his life felt like they had only been mere words that he’d read in a fantasy novel long ago. It was a nice thought, so that must have been it; it had to be it.

Disgusted, Trunks left his room carrying the sword in its sheath in his left hand. He could trick himself into believing it was just a fairy tale, but deep down, he knew it was all real. He’d get the damnable sword out of his room, and then out of his mind. The last thing he needed was to be sleeping beneath a sword. His throat tightened as he realized that was exactly what he’d been doing the last few years.

God! If that thing had fallen, I might have-- His thoughts trailed off realizing it was all the more reason to get rid of the pestering metal scrapnel. He even foggily remembered Goten suggesting that he display the sword there in the first place. It just made him mentally think that Goten had been out to kill him subconsciously before they’d even had their quarrel.

Trunks hissed as he walked though the long, huge, Capsule building. This level was relatively empty, as it was his and his parents living quarters and so the corridors and such were unbelievably beautiful to anyone looking Of course, he was overly impressed. After all, it was only natural that he should live in a house that reflected his own personal beauty.

He sadly reflected that the only thing he resented by denying his Sayiajin blood was that he also denied himself the title of Prince. His father had been a prince, and his father before him a king. Trunks knew he had gotten his vanity from his father, where else would he have picked up the trait? It was only right that a prince by blood ought to think himself beautiful, right?

Trunks briefly thought about his father: the man had left several months ago without saying where or why he was leaving, just picking up and goin

she’d tell him where to put his sword. He didn’t want to destroy it, just put it out of sight. It was probably worth money, after all. His mother would know exactly where it should go. The elevator doors closed of their own accord, and Trunks manually pressed the button to his mothers office floor. The lift began accelerating until it came to the correct floor where the doors opened and Trunks stepped out of the lift. He passed very few people on this level as well because his mother didn’t like to be disturbed when she was working on a project. Hence, she only let trusted staff members allowed up here. Trunks identified himself to one of the many surveillance robots and continued to his mothers office.

The steel door was shut, so Trunks had to knock, but it was a soft knock, one his mother knew was his. Moments later, from inside, he heard a voice: "Come in, Trunks!" She called, so Trunks opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit room.

"Mother?" He whispered into the darkness as he walked inside, looking about for his mother. She was at her desk, hunched over some contraption or another. Her window shades had been drawn shut and the only light in the room was that of the halogen lamp above her desk. He waited a moment until his mother straightened and turned around to face him and smiled.

"What brings you here, Trunks-san?" Bulma asked politely, brushing a strand of light hair from her face. Trunks smiled at his mother reflecting on how she always fascinated him. He thanked her silently for giving him her share of good looks. Her brow furrowed at seeing the sword and sheath in his hand, and he looked down at it.

"It’s about time I got this thing out of my room." He casually said. "It’s just collecting dust." Bulma looks at Trunks confused.

"Trunks-san?" She began. "But, I thought you loved that sword." Trunks shrugged nonchalantly.

"Another time, another me. Maybe once I admired it, but now it only brings me cold memories of the monster I once was." Trunks said tartly. Bulma, nonplused, stood up from her chair.

"Trunks." She stated, fixing ice blue eyes on her son. "I know you have tried to hide your Sayiajin blood. ami-sama only knows why," she looked up at her son, "but, it pains both your father and myself that you’re neglecting half of yourself." She looked down at the sheath in his hands, and then gestured to it. "This sword use to mean so much to you. I still remember the day you got it." She thoughtfully recalled, looking back up into his face.

Trunks ‘humph-ed’, turning away. "Well, I don’t." He growled, missing the way Bulma’s eyes widened behind her glasses. Trunks attempted to fold his arms across his chest, but could only half complete the pose, as the sword was still clutched in his hand. Bulma placed her palm on his shoulder lightly.

"Do you really not remember, Trunks? Can you have really pushed those thoughts so far from your mind?" Trunks looked over his shoulder at his mothers fingertips.

"I don’t know how you could be proud of a son, or of a husband, who killed others. Someone whose race took pride in conquering and destroying other planets." Trunks coldly growled, looking away from Bulma towards the bland wall.

"That isn’t what I’m proud of and you know it Trunks. You, your father and your race have all become the protectors of Earth. You have all risked your lives many times to save this planet from being destroyed. You are not ‘conquest-hungry ravenousness murders’. Stop making yourself out to seem like one." Bulma argued, having had this discussion with both her husband and son before. Trunks pulled away, letting Bulma’s hand fall off his shoulder. He hunched up and his bangs fell into his eyes.

"I always think you, of all people, would understand." Trunks whispered icily. It pained Bulma to see her son like this; he hadn’t been the same since he’d returned from his journey to bring Son-kun back to age. She knew he and Goten had gotten into a verbal argument, but she couldn’t fathom the anger Trunks felt towards the Son’s, or towards his fathers race.

"Trunks. I do understand. I try to." Bulma tried to coax him back into a rational mood. "Still, its hard to believe your hatred. You’ve never told me what really happened between you and Goten-kun. Lets sit down, and talk about it, okay? You’ll feel better afterwards, and I’ll even make you some hot tea. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You got caught out in the rain, I’m sure." Trunks didn’t move and Bulma stayed motionless behind him as well. Finally, Trunks took a breath, unable to take his mother’s pleasantries any longer.

"Goten is a back stabbing son of a bitch! I have nothing more to say about him!" Trunks screamed, and then turned to stride past his baffled mother and head for the door leading into the corridor.

"Trunks! You come back here right this minute!" Bulma shouted, stalking after her son. "You have no right to take that tone in front of your own mother!" Trunks halted because he still respected his mother, even if he was upset with her. He looked over his shoulder at her, struggling with his words. He was torn between obeying her, and insulting the Son’s family. "I can’t apologize! That filthy, slimy, no good, SAYIAJIN deserves every word I speak harshly of him!" And with that final out burst he stormed out of the room.

Bulma stood alone in her office, completely speechless. "Trunks. Oh, my dear poor Trunks." She whispered after him.

Trunks blindly tore his way through the building in near tears. Between his love for his mother and his hate for Goten, he couldn’t fathom feeling worse. He’d needed to get out of the Capsule building, but he really had no where else to go: it was pouring rain outside now, and most likely would remain that way for sometime.

He inwardly cursed his unluckiness. Well, rain or no, he wasn’t staying here any longer. He headed for the lift and took it all the way to the ground level and at the exit leading out into the rain, he grabbed an umbrella from a rack, pushing out into the cloudy evening.

Angry still, Trunks walked into the blowing rain, using the umbrella as a shield to block off the hard pellets of water. He continued stalking, furious with his mother, with his father and with everyone, including himself.

How could anyone be proud of all the Saiyajin race had done? Yes, they had protected this world, but what of the millions upon millions the Sayiajin had killed and conquered before coming to this world? Could that be dismissed as simply as if it didn’t exist by letting one sorry group protect this one world? Could that even begin to remotely make up for the quantity destroyed?

Trunks continued his train of thought for sometime until he realized that it had become nearly pitch black and he was cool, and so he stopped. Listening to the rain hitting his umbrella made him nervous, and the sky was empty of colour now, darkened with thunder and rain clouds. He squinted to see through the inky blackness, but made nothing out. Realization hit him that he had no clue as to where on Earth he was. The wind tousled his bangs around his face and billowed his clothes about him as he turned, taking note of the buildings and his new surroundings.

This wasn’t such a good neighborhood. Perhaps he ought be getting back to Capsule Headquarters where he could vent his frustrations in safety. What he didn’t need was getting himself accidentally killed in gang crossfire. Turning back the way he’d come, Trunks picked up speed because being alone in these types of neighborhoods scared him, but it was beyond him to break into a run, he didn’t want to be seen running because he was to proper for that.

He continued at a well-to-do pace, clutching his umbrella in one hand, to keep the wind from ripping it out of his grasp. Eventually though, his fingers became so numb that he had to stop to blow circulation back into them. A strong gust of wind yanked the umbrella from Trunks’s hands and carried it off into the night. "Dammit no!" Trunks cried, chasing after the black speck for a few feet. He stopped in the middle of the street, anger flushing his face as the rain collected on him and dripped off his bangs now, the icy water staining his suit and soaking though his pants. It was cold and he shivered finding himself alone again, like so much of his world.

Turning, he spied the headlights of an oncoming vehicle approaching him. He momentarily thought of asking for a ride back to Capsule, but remembered the area he was in, and stepped aside. The car slowed as it neared him, and Trunks got impatient that it was trying to follow him. He began to walk on the sidewalk, keeping his eyes ahead, to avoid looking at the car.

The vehicle slowed until it was driving along side him and Trunks’ just nervously held his head higher as water dripped off his nose. Finally the car pulled forward and stopped slightly a head of him. Trunks halted a bit behind the car, deciding if he should continue on his way or not. The engine shut off and both driver and front passenger doors opened.

Trunks waited as both men exited carrying umbrella’s, and one held a flashlight. The flashlight man turned the object on, and shined it in Trunks’s face who blinked and lifted his hand to ward off the light. The other man approached looking Trunks over cautiously.

"Where do you think you’re going?" The first man asked, and Trunks swallowed hard.

"Home." He whispered, but then remembered that would mean nothing to them. "Capsule Corporation." He added loudly, making it a proud statement.

The other man whistled, shining his light towards Trunks’s midsection.

"What’re you planning on doing once you get there?" He asked, nodding his head towards Trunks hand. Trunks lifted his left arm: in it, he still firmly grasped the sheathed sword. He swallowed harder and looked past the two men. Sure enough, he saw what he was hoping wouldn’t be there on top of the car: lights. So logically, these men were police officers.

The man without the flashlight approached cautiously. "You’ll have to give that here, son." He coaxed, but at that ‘title’ Trunks’ eyes glazed over and he clenched the sword sheath tighter.

"I’m not a Son! Don’t insult me by calling me one!" He cried, ignoring how both men exchanged glances. The same man continued.

"Of course you’re a son. Any boy alive has had a mother. Even you." He softly said, taking a hesitant step forward. Trunks saw it now, that the man had not been speaking of the Son-kun family but a father’s son. He flushed angrily at being embarrassed before police like that.

"Why don’t you give that weapon here?" The second officer continued, causing Trunks to look at the sword in his hand.

What had he been thinking carrying a sword, with a blade as long an deadly as it was, in plain sight!? He wasn’t licensed to hold any sort of weapon let alone a sword of this potential violence. He swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. The officer held his hand out, and it was obvious neither man was afraid that he would use the weapon. There was little violence towards officers these days, although Trunks could tell the two were still cautious.

Well, he’d been wanting to get rid of the sword anyway, so what better way than to have it confiscated by the police? Trunks absently held the weapon out to the second officer.

A gust of wind blew Trunks’ bangs into his face and he turned to brush them aside. In the distance, a loud thunder-clap made him look up, and through the jet black night, an almost glowing column of rising smoke could be seen. His eyebrows drew together in confusion, and both cops turned to look in the direction of the thunderclap as well.

"Holy Mary mother of Jesus!" One cried out, taking a step back in shock. The wind picked up blowing the scent of smoke towards them. Trunks squinted, and although he wore glasses, he could still use his keen Sayiajin eyesight and see sharper and clearer than almost anyone on the planet. Even from here, he could see the upper half of a building on fire, and make out the hot flames licking out of it’s now-gaping windows.

Finally the rain began to lift, and with horror in his eyes, Trunks made out what building it was burning so brightly. He took off without warning down the street, running recklessly on the slick pavement.

"MOTHER!" He screamed, with pain in his voice but it was almost instantly lost to the droning wind.

To Be Continued . . .