He was standing on the cliff when she found him, fists clenched, wearing the same kimono he'd worn on his wedding day. Blood - her blood - stained his clothes, his hands. 'Trunks,' she called softly. 'What happened?' 'She's dead.' There was no emotion in his voice. Cold as a statue, he stood there, wind whipping his hair around his face. 'Trunks, I'm so sorry. There, there are only three Dragonballs left to collect, maybe-' 'No.' He turned his eyes skyward. 'I'll get her back. If I have to go to Hell itself to do it.' The wind snapped up, surrounding him, with a flock of bloodstained butterflies. A watercolor illustration from a story I'm slowly writing for one of my friends, The Butterfly Sage. This is the Trunks that's been to Hell and back for the woman he loves, the woman who's once collected all seven Dragonballs to wish him back to life.