It was midafternoon. The heiress and her prince had spent the better part of the morning intimately with one another, engaging in round after round after round of passion. No talking, no pausing, no thinking. Just like they had been when they first started, it was nothing but raw heat between them.

But there was one major difference between when they had first started their unique relationship and that tumultuous moment. They had a nine year old son, one who had not been faring well over the past few days. While his parents were getting out their frustrations in their time honored tradition, Trunks was left to his own devices. Still mad at how everything had been going as of late, it was not a good situation to be in.

Trunks had been pouting in his room when his parents had taken to their usual pursuits. He could feel the wave of furious power burning within his young body, screaming to get out. The urge to just tear his entire room up and destroy everything around him was almost overwhelming. Ever since his ascension a few days earlier, he had found that urge creeping up more and more often. It was odd. He was aware that the feelings were not normal. He was aware of how violent and terrible the feelings were. And yet, he wanted so badly to just give in to them. It was so tempting, so very tempting.

But there was just barely enough sense in his clouded little mind to keep him from acting on those instincts. Unfortunately, with his immense power, that meant that the only options he could see available to him were rampant destruction or silent repression. He had tried his best to go along the quieter road, but after hours of forcing his urges down, it was no longer working. The walls seemed to be closing in on him. He just could not contain the pressure anymore. He had to get out. He had to get far, far away before he lost it.

And he was definitely about to lose it.

After sitting still as a statue for hours, Trunks had reached his limit. Barely able to keep from destroying it, he flung his window open and launched his little body out of it. He was not at all sure where he was going, and frankly, he did not care. As long as he was out, he was headed in the right direction.

The boy flew aimlessly for about half an hour before descending on a desert terrain. He landed hard, far harder than necessary, leaving a definite crater in his wake. But he was unaware of the damage his entry had caused.

His skin itched and his head throbbed. Without actually thinking about his actions, he kicked off his socks. In his haste, he had not bothered to put on his shoes before he had left. In a regular, rhythmic pattern, he began to clench and unclench his toes in the burning sands. Over and over and over again, steady as could be, the toes tightened and let go of the small grains beneath him. He began to breathe deeply in a vain attempt to calm himself.

Several minutes passed, his feet the only part of his body that moved. A strong desert wind began to swirl about him, sending the dust and sand flying around his body. He closed his eyes and groaned, reveling in the way the sand scratched at his burning skin. The winds got stronger, and the rough sands attacked his body violently. The relief was welcomed by the child, but it was not enough.

Trunks began to scratch his arms, his clouded mind finally able to understand what the sensation he felt was. He grated his nails fiercely against his arms and his torso, and once again, he felt mild relief. But he needed more.

The boy snatched at the sand by his feet. He began to rub it against his skin, but it quickly grew into a frantic fashion. As he hissed in agitation, he ground the grains powerfully against his flesh, tearing it open in his aggression. Tiny droplets of blood began welling toward the surface, and slowly they began to leak from his body. His arms and chest bore the brunt of his violent actions, and they were bright red with raw flesh and traces of blood.

He let out a low, guttural noise as his movements grew increasingly erratic. No matter how hard he attacked his skin, it still itched and burned so badly that it was driving him mad. Rougher and rougher he attacked his own body, dying for any true sensation of relief. As he continued his assault, his energy began to climb ever higher, littered with wild spikes. There was no control to any of his actions. There was barely any coherent thought in his overwhelmed mind, and his instincts were overruling what little there was.

It was too much to bear. He began to scream wildly, clawing disturbingly at his own body. To him, the world was blurring away. Even the sand that was lodged into his nose and throat was not registering, all paling in comparison to the torment that he felt. Every cell in his body felt like it was overloading and ready to burst.

Tears began to fly down his face as he dug his bare feet into the sand, his hands clawing away. His chest and arms had started bleeding heavily and his wounds were filling quickly with sand. The child screamed and cried as his focus moved to his neck and face, showing none of the restraint he had used when he had first started. It only took seconds for his face to be riddled with gashes. Bloody fingers tore dangerously close to his eyes and his jugular. It would not stop. The torment just would not stop. Screaming at the top of his lungs, he dug deeper and deeper into body. It was not fading at all, burning so badly the he could not control anything. Harder and harder and harder he clawed, all rationale gone and forgotten. His very well being had been thrown in the wind, and he grew ever closer to tearing apart more than could be repaired.

As the tempest within reached a new high, fists closed tightly over his small wrists. When his fingers could no longer reach his tortured flesh, he began to thrash in retaliation. He screamed as he desperately tried to free himself from his perceived jailer. Kicking and writhing, he did everything he could to liberate himself. With a shriek, he launched his head backwards, connecting hard with the chest of his captor.

But he was held firm. His blood ran freely over the strong fingers as his heart rate continued to rise and force the red substance out. The slick blood eliminated traction on the wrists, giving Trunks just enough freedom to temporarily slip his hands through his restraints.

It was not as successful as the boy would have liked. As soon as his captor had a free hand, he brought it down hard on the child's neck, overwhelming the pressure point and rendering the child unconscious. Completely drained and dripping with blood, Trunks collapsed face first toward the sand, caught barely before he landed roughly on the ground.

Shaking with tension, Gohan cradled the little boy against his chest. The blood seeped from the child onto his clothing, soaking him quickly in crimson. "Damn it," the teenager muttered, his voice ragged with stress. Without another moment of hesitation, he took to the skies, heading straight for the Lookout.

One month earlier, Gohan had made a near fatal error, opting for a more human approach and taking Bulma to the hospital instead of the guardian. It had damn near torn their entire group apart, and the teenager still struggled with the guilt of his choice. So he flew as fast as he could, desperate to get Trunks to Dende as fast as mortally possible.

"DENDE!" he hollered, his feet barely on the surface. There was no sign of the little guardian outside, but Gohan's teacher was waiting for them.

"Inside," the large man calmly instructed, watching as the two half bloods went inside. The seasoned warrior had sensed the wild energy shooting from the child, and if his protégé had not moved so quickly, he would have done so personally. That level of power was well above safe parameters, particularly for one so young and ill experienced. Saiyan blood or not, Trunks had been riding so high that he had nearly killed himself. Even without the blood loss, it was a miracle that the boy was alive.

Piccolo calmly entered the sanctuary, his facade far calmer than his actual feelings. He, like the rest of their allies, had been confident that the true ordeal was over. Everything had been wrapped up in a neat little bow, and several had cracked jokes about how everything was "happily ever after". Clearly, they had been wrong.

The enormous man watched as the little prince was placed on the cool tile floor, his blood quickly pooling around him. It was a gruesome scene. Trunks had mutilated his own body and face to the point where he was barely recognizable. Strips of flesh had been peeled away. Lines were gouged into his body. Coarse sand had clotted in the still bright blood that was forcing its way out of his wounds.

Dende quickly had his hands over the child, ready and eager to help. So often, the young guardian felt useless to his adoptive world. In spite of his given title, Dende felt that he had done little, if anything, to actually help the planet. If ever there was a chance to do a heroic deed within his skill range, the young god would jump at the opportunity.

As he began the healing process, though, his brow line furrowed. With a sudden gasp, he withdrew his hands. "Um, I am not certain this is a good idea."

Gohan shot a look of disbelief at his friend. "What?" he demanded. "Why?"

The young guardian sat back and crossed his legs, looking at his oldest friend. "Gohan, he's not under control," he pointed out. "I don't want to heel him from his wounds only for him to kill himself accidentally with that power."

"I know," softly answered the demi Saiyan. "Maybe you don't have to heal him all the way. You know, stop the blood loss but still leave him out?"

Dende nodded. "I can do that," he assured, once again getting his hands out over the boy. "You know that the wounds will remain visible, right?"

Gohan nodded. "I know."

Swallowing, the green boy kept his eyes on his work. "Um, about his parents…"

The taller teenager shook his head. "I don't know," he sighed. "I don't know what I'm going to tell them. I don't know where they've been, I don't know what they've been doing, I don't know what the hell has been going on in that house since they went home four days ago." Gohan sat all the way back, slumping against the cool wall of the sanctuary. "I thought this was over," he quietly said.

"We all did," Piccolo responded. The younger two jumped slightly, having forgotten about the large man for a moment. "It stood reason to believe that, with that particular brood reunited, the worst was going to be over. It would appear that we were mistaken in that calculation."

Gohan resumed his position against the wall and closed his eyes. He felt the shift in the atmosphere a moment before his father appeared. That, he had been waiting for. "Hey, Dad," he calmly said, his eyes still closed.

"Hey, sorry that took so long," Goku panted, glancing around the room. "Getting Goten to calm down was a lot harder than I thought it would be." As soon as his eyes fell upon the unconscious child, he winced. "Yikes, what happened?" he asked. "I mean I know he powered up like crazy, but I've never seen an energy spike cause…well, that…"

As Gohan got to his feet, Dende slid away from Trunks. The demi Saiyan extended a hand and helped his friend to his feet. "Thanks," Dende said, dusting off his robes. "He's going to be okay," he assured the three men in the room, "but I would keep a close eye on him for a while."

"Agreed," Gohan firmly stated. The teenager faced his father and offered him a sad smile. "Remember a few days ago when Trunks ascended?"

"Yeah," Goku nodded. "This is, well, phase two of that."

Goku could only stare blankly back at his son. "I don't understand," he quietly responded. "I mean, you, Vegeta and I have all ascended before, and we never went through anything like this."

Letting out a very tense sigh, Gohan approached his father. "I don't know what happened with you and Vegeta," the teenager solemnly began, "but with me…well, here's what happened to me…"