“Where the hell have you been?”
He ignored his mother, walking past her, Pan’s bandana clutched tightly in his fist.
“Trunks, where the hell have you been? It’s noon! I called Gohan, and it seems you dropped Pan off around 4 this morning, so where the hell have you been?”
Trunks’ eyes were sunken, as if he’d been crying, or hadn’t slept in a long while. Or like he’d been drinking.
“Trunks? Trunks!”
He winced, staggered, brought a hand up to his head.
Bulma stood up from her perch on the couch and crossed to him, grabbing the front of his shirt in her fist, pulling his face next to hers. He didn’t smell of alcohol, and he didn’t look as if he’d been crying, his eyes were puffy and sunken, but his face wasn’t streaked in tear-tracks; he was pale, but not flushed.
“Trunks?” It dawned on her and she quickly thwaped the back of his head. “Trunks! Coming home 8 hours late looking like the dead will not get you out of that presentation this evening! I don’t care if there’s some new enemy threatening to destroy the Earth! You will unveil it tonight!”
He groaned.
He’d completely forgotten about that damn conference with the rest of the world tonight.
Usually these types of banquets were a breeze and he didn’t mind them much, but after all that had happened with Pan last night, and this morning, he guessed, he wasn’t up to it.
He still couldn’t feel his heart…it was still lying dead or dormant—probably dead—in his chest, shrinking and shriveling up into a black and withered lump of coal, sending gut wrenching spasms of pain through his soul.
He was dying…he had to be.
“Mother…please, can we postpone—”
“NO!!!!!”
With a defeated sigh, he trudged upstairs.
“We’re picking up the Sons at 3, so get ready!”
Trunks froze, halfway up the stairs, in midstep. He felt weak enough to fall over.
DAMMIT!
He’d completely forgotten about that…Bulma had suggested that it become one of those old party events that she’d always thrown, so on the way to Capsule Corps Offices, they were picking up Gohan, ChiChi, Videl, and Pan, leaving Goten to find his own ride. After he had revealed CC’s newest invention to the world, they were back to Capsule Corp HQ, as Goten had taken to calling it, to a patented “Bulma Briefs Party”.
Damn.
“Trunks!” Bulma screeched from downstairs, shattering him. He stumbled forward before he caught himself. “Trunks, get going! Come on!”
Clenching his fists, he whirled.
“Dammit, Mother! I don’t need this right now! Reveal the new fucking capsules yourself, if they’re so damned important to you! Right now, petty pieces of shit like those don’t require my attention!”
Bulma staggered back, completely taken by the father-son resemblance that Trunks had shown. She’d always known her son had had it in him, but not to this extent, and she’d never thought it would come out over something as trivial as super-compact capsules. But there is was, Trunks with Vegeta written all over him—the growling sneer, the dark and haunted eyes, the impassive and emotionless face. His stance was rigid, as if he was using every bit of will power to keep from blasting her. Not to mention his tone of voice…his attitude towards something so insignificant, and yet so important.
“Trunks…”
Shaking, Trunks punched the wall. Didn’t even bother to turn, just drew his hand across his chest, and slammed it into the wall. The house shuddered, and suddenly, Bulma had a new doorway into the middle of the living room.
“Listen, Mister,” she started, knowing how to handle him—just the same as his father. Yell back and make him listen, get him away from Bra and all others present, then ask him what was wrong. “I don’t need—”
Trunks turned his back on her, crossing his arms across his chest and blurring up the stairs, leaving a baffled and bewildered Bulma behind.