Bulma Brief entered Capsule Media Corporation's sprawling newsroom in a rotten mood. Her new silk blouse now had a giant brown coffee stain, courtesy of a distracted, poorly dressed idiot she met in the lobby earlier that morning. Worse, the jerk didn't have the proper gentlemanly manners to apologize when he bumped into her. Instead, he rudely called Bulma 'rude' and blamed her because she was using her smartphone. She thought this was an utterly ridiculous response. The place was teeming with reporters, magazine writers, and television personalities. Of course people were glued to their smartphones! That's how work got done!
She cursed angrily to herself. Now she had to wear her Giorgio Armani suit jacket outside, all day, in ninety-degree weather, and she had at least three more people left to interview - all men who weren't exactly the most emotionally intelligent guys. She wouldn't give these Neanderthals an excuse to inspect her modest breast cleavage more than they regularly did. She wanted them focused, and she had to meet her story deadline by Friday. Her restless and eternally grumpy chain-smoking editors also needed to let her do her magic. Her reporting team had won three Pulitzer Prizes and other prestigious awards over the last fifteen years. One would think her overseers had learned by now to leave her alone to get the job done. She usually picked one or two adventurous young reporters to work on big stories, too, and they never failed to rise to the challenge. Two helped with Pulitzer-winning stories, which eventually helped them launch successful careers. Bulma's career took off that way as a young reporter, after a hack named Jackson M. Roshi gave her several chances to prove herself by working closely with him. Her raw talent and tireless work ethic were stellar. And, unlike others in the newsroom, he didn't give a shit that she was the wild child from one of the wealthiest families on the East Coast. Jack was also her worst and best critic when she made mistakes - or screwed up big time. Besides her father, she looked up to him the most.
One of her first big stories led to the multiple arrests of corrupt businessmen who worked for what had been a highly respected banking company. She celebrated until Jack scolded her: "Kiddo, you're only as good as your next story - and remember, duchess, you are the reporter. Don't make yourself the focus, and stop eating my goddamn French fries! Doesn't your trust fund allow grocery shopping?"
Jack was now managing editor in the news division, overseeing daily operations and the unavoidable personality clashes among his staff. Bulma remained his protégé, but he couldn't afford to play favorites with any of his employees now that he was the boss. He also planned to hire new workers to shake up everyone in the office, including his rock star reporter. He wanted Bulma to forget prize-winning for a while to dirty her pretty little French-manicured hands in hard news again. If she didn't want to be an editor like him - which she avoided like the plague - then those were his terms. He leaned on his office door for a few minutes thinking about the possible consequences of his plans for her.
"Hey, duchess! Get in my office now. I got someone for you to meet."
Bulma, who didn't bother looking up, shoved a banana into her mouth. "Oh, come on, Jack. You know I can't right now. I'm meeting my source for that story we discussed two hours ago. He's been patient with me."
"Well that's a good quality to have," Jack replied sarcastically. "I'm sure he'll understand why you're late then - and Christ on a cracker, can you talk first before chewing with your mouth open, Bulma? That's disgusting. If I didn't know who you parents were, I'd swear that you were raised by honey badgers."
Everyone nearby laughed while a pleasant grin crept across Bulma's face. After giving Jack the middle finger, she stuffed her banana peel into a paper cup - one of many littering her desk - and slowly put on her jacket.
Jack frowned as the lavender-haired beauty casually skipped to his office. "Oh, that's real classy, Bulma, really classy. I still run this department, you know. How about showing some respect?"
"Let's make a deal then," Bulma said dryly. "I'll stop giving you vulgar hand signs when you tell the other guys and gals here to stop throwing darts at your picture in the dining hall. Now tell me…tell me…"
Bulma suddenly choked on her words after recognizing the man sitting near Jack's desk. He had already poured a glass of water for both of them. Bulma felt her cheekbones changing colors - angry colors - that were overpowering her expensive makeup job. Her lips shut tighter than a vault door.
"Tell me what?" Jack said, raising his eyebrow. "Is something wrong?"
"No, sir," Bulma said with an unfriendly chill in her voice. "We have wasted your guest's time long enough."
"I wouldn't necessarily call him a guest," Jack replied, looking curiously at her. "He's our newest hire, and you will be working closely together for the next year."
The man slowly stood to greet her. "Actually, we had the pleasure of meeting in the lobby this morning, Jack. Hello again, Ms. Brief. My name is Vegeta Prince."
What the hell was Jack was up to? Why didn't he talk with her first? The entire situation irritated Bulma to no end. She had earned the right to handpick journalists she wanted to work with now - and most would kill to work with her. Not only was it clear that this new guy would be difficult, but he also dressed like a detective from a bad television mystery series - although his black leather boots had been shined perfectly. She liked that for some strange reason. She walked to opposite side of Jack's desk to seat herself, making no effort to shake her colleague's hand. Then she noticed the strikingly gorgeous chrome-tipped walking cane propped against his chair. She averted her eyes when Vegeta noticed her staring at it. The mini-explosion of horror and embarrassment on her face gave the man's crotchety heart pure, unadulterated joy. It was she who almost plowed over a disabled man in the main lobby, on his first day at work, and she damn well knew it.
It didn't take long for Jack to realize these two had a disastrous introduction earlier that day. He closed his eyes briefly, praying for wisdom, because his job was about to get much harder. Bulma Brief didn't suffer fools, although former Marine First Sergeant Vegeta Prince could hardly be described in that way. The man's hardened, take-no-prisoners reputation preceded him, at least among the close-knit expatriate community of editors and reporters he worked with overseas. The Georgetown University graduate and decorated veteran served in the military until he was injured during a deployment. Afterward, journalism seemed like a natural fit for him professionally, and he competed with the best reporters inside and outside of the country. No one dared question his skills. He hated so-called "television news," and he wasn't shy about saying so, often quite angrily, because he remembered when it once served a useful purpose. Although he was a middle-aged man, his fellow reporters often called him "Father Time" because of his strong opinions about, well, just about everything. He hated small talk, though. If new acquaintances discussed the weather forecast multiple times or chattered about a beautiful new actress, he'd leave within minutes - and he didn't care if they were offended by his hasty exit. They didn't realize he was doing them a favor. There also weren't many people he considered close friends, except for a few from college and the military, and they didn't live anywhere near Manhattan.
Vegeta could also be an ass - like none other - when he believed the people working closely with him were lazy, or worse, incompetent. He knew that part wouldn't be a problem with Bulma. He admired her work and followed the rise of her career for years. One of her prize-winning reports focused on the difficulties veterans faced after returning to their small towns in upstate New York. He considered respectfully telling her how much he appreciated the story, and watching the documentary film she produced, but there was no way in hell he would say anything now. That prima donna's over-sized ego almost made him rethink taking the job, especially since Jack was so eager for them to work together. He had fought hard his entire life for everything he had, including getting into college. The way Bulma paraded her upper East Side, blue-blooded, old money background in front of their boss, and him, was annoying. But Vegeta had many faults that blinded him at times too, the greatest being that he could never take full pleasure in having achieved so much in his life.
Jack moved around uncomfortably in his leather chair while Vegeta and Bulma listened to him for an hour. Neither had much to say, especially Bulma, which worried him more. He expected her to demand an angry shouting match with him about this decision as soon as Vegeta left. They usually reserved bigger arguments for one of the stinky alleys between the Capsule Corporation buildings, but he hoped that the oppressive summer heat would discourage her, so he opened his door to kick both reporters out of his office. Thinking that he would need more time to leave, Bulma stood behind Vegeta, who looked at her with indifference. Her coldness would never, ever match his. He was the maestro.
"What is it?" Bulma asked. "You can go ahead of me."
"No, please, Ms. Brief - after you," Vegeta said calmly. "I can be a slow walker sometimes with my bad hip, depending on how tired I am. I try not to get in anybody's way, you know? I'm sure you understand."
Bulma bit the inside of her cheek so hard that she almost drew blood. "Thank you, Mr. Prince, but I'm fine right here." She gave Jack a furious look as the other man left the office. It registered one step below an active volcano.
Jack returned to his desk and removed a shot glass from a locked drawer, followed by a giant bottle of Irish whiskey. "I'll meet you outside in a couple hours, duchess," he said. "There are other people here besides you who need me. Now get out and finish your work."
Bulma felt co-workers staring after she left her boss's office. The gossip had started and would likely spread like wildfire through both Capsule Media buildings before 3 p.m. She glanced at her watch. The time was 2:50 p.m.
Vegeta seemed unaware of their attention, however. He sat next to her desk wiping off his area with Clorox disinfectant wipes. He looked thoroughly disgusted by the growing pile of leftover potato chip bags, soda cans, crumpled napkins, and only-god-knows what other hazardous waste on Bulma's side of their workstation. When she returned to her desk, this time carrying coffee in a locked thermos, she noticed a little trash can had been placed between them. She sneered after grabbing a stack of ink pens and stuffing them in her purse. Mister clean would have to get his own supplies.
Vegeta was now spraying compressed air on his computer keyboard to remove all dust and crumbs. Then he looked beneath his desk. "You will use this trash can regularly as long as we're sitting next to each other."
Bulma set her cup down. "Excuse me?"
Vegeta grabbed his cane and stood. "Ich weiß, dass du mich gehört hast, Fräu Brief."
"Oh, god." Bulma rolled her eyes. "You're one of those people - and yes, I heard you, sergeant. I also speak a little bit of German."
"Sehr gut!" Vegeta said. "Then you will do me the courtesy of keeping your moldy lab experiments on your side of our shared space. Regular trash removal is required, though. And let me make myself clear: If I see one roach or ant or maggot over there, then I will throw everything inside of your desk into the dumpster downstairs."
Bulma removed her earrings and unpinned her hair. "I see you still like a good fight. Well, buddy, you can save it for someone else. I have better things to do. Go find a beef bone or something else to gnaw on - since you do sound like you're hungry. It looks like your teeth need whitening anyway."
Vegeta shifted his grip on the cane and left for the elevator. "Perhaps you should look in the mirror. All of that coffee hasn't done your vampire fangs any favors either. Try water. It's much better for you. Good day, duchess."
Hello, folks. I hope you like my little thought experiment. We'll see where the path leads. Endnotes in chapter two offer background on how V & B see themselves. Comments are always welcome, and thanks for reading!
Ich weiß, dass du mich gehört hast = I know you've heard me.
Sehr gut = Very good.