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Trunks was out for a night on the town in an attempt to get his mind off of Kira, and it wasn't working. He had gone to the movies, he had gone dancing, he had even gone to a karaoke bar, but nothing had helped. Now he was just wandering the streets, looking for something else to do.
As he passed a dark alley a man with a mask and a gun stepped out.
"Hold it right there, mac. Give me all 'yer money, and nobody gets hurt."
Trunks didn't seem to even notice the guy. He just kept on coming.
"Didn't you hear me, buddy? One more step, and I'll shoot. Now hand over 'yer money!"
Trunks just kept walking, and the man fired. The bullet sped towards its target. Trunks didn't even look up. Moving faster than the eye could see he caught the bullet, stepped the last two feet towards the guy, and batted him into the wall of the building, embedding him in it.
"Next time," he said as he walked away, "I won't be so gentle."
It was on one of the planets he had "harvested" that Dr. Diox built power sensors into his scout robots, and right now they were going to come in very handy.
Like Dr. Gero's little scouts, the robots were fashioned to look like bugs; the perfect spies. Small, not easily detectable, and found everywhere. He had set them to signal when they found a very high power level. If they did, he could look through them at whatever, or whoever they had found.
A beep alerted him that one of his scouts had succeeded. Dr. Diox looked through the monitor and at a purple-haired teenager. Something bothered him about this boy. He immediately recognized him as Trunks, the son of Vegeta, but there was something... not right about him.
He had Trunks tailed as he pondered the subject. It had been a shame that he couldn't have used Vegeta in his experiments in place of Goku, but the man spent all his waking moments training, and the only way he could have gotten into the gravity room would be by force. With all the security around Capsule Corp. and his desire to remain unknown that would never have worked. Then he wondered why he hadn't used Trunks. The answer hit him like a ton of bricks.
Trunks was dead, or at least, he was supposed to be. Dr. Diox had seen the hole through his chest with his own eyes during the Cell games. In fact, not only was he supposed to be dead, if anything he looked younger _now_ than he had 17 years ago.
That clinched it; he had to know how it had been accomplished. Turning to the intercom, Dr. Diox signaled some of his elite fighters, the only ones intelligent and strong enough to handle weapons, and some others. He gave them a command, knowing that they were seeing what he was.
"Take him."
Trunks had been out for quite some time, sometimes flying, but mostly walking. He looked up from the road and found himself well outside the city.
"Maybe I've been out _too_ long" he thought to himself.
Suddenly he sensed something coming towards him, multiple somethings, five to be exact.
He turned around. Sure enough, there they were, just coming into view through the night. He gave a little start of surprise. There were many more than he had originally thought; about fifteen. It was the first five whom he had felt so strongly. He noticed those particular ones were also carrying some type of weapon.
As soon as they saw him, they sped up, and Trunks prepared to face them.
"At least I'm warmed up," he mused.
While the enemies were still a few yards away, one of the front-runners fired his weapon. There was a flash of silver, and Trunks just barely managed to dodge the line that had been fired. It did manage to graze him, however, and he winced as he felt some his energy drain away.
"The arms!" he realized as the line was recoiled in. "Those must be the mechanical arms Gohan told us about! That means he's back!" He switched to Super Saiya-jin, then they were on him, and there was no more time for thought.
It was a struggle just trying to avoid the energy-sapping weapons, but fighting as well proved to be an impossible task. Just when Trunks thought he was home free the one weapon he had not yet destroyed managed to gain a firm grip on his arm. Struggle proved futile, and he was soon unconscious. His failure was not without merit, though. Only three fighters returned to their master; battered, but triumphant, with their prize slung over the shoulder of the only elite left.
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