Gohan and Goten didn't get much time to think about the mysterious orange orb in the days that followed. After cleaning out the furniture left to them by Master Roshi they had all but forgotten about it. They shelved it along with the other quirky items among the collection. The plan was to sort through these things on Saturday with the help of their grandfather. He would be able to help them appraise some of the weirder finds.

Gohan's assumption hadn't been far from the truth. The rosewood pieces really did fly out of the store. It didn't surprise Goten that most of them were bought by old ladies, nor that they always bought an atrocious blanket or poncho to drape over them. Then of course, he was the one who sold them. People were predictable.

So the week came and went. Business went about as usual and nothing at all was out of the ordinary. When Goten locked the store that Friday, he still had no clue about what they would uncover in the days to come.

A jolly tune passed his lips in a whistle as he stuffed his keys into his pocket. Gohan had left early to go check up on their mother; Goku would be working late and was unable to do so between shifts. When Goten walked around the back he found Sharpener there, his eyes lingering on the yellow monstrosity. Goten rolled his eyes.

"You two lovebirds ready?" Sharpener would drop him off at his parents' house, after which the man would take the moving truck halfway across the country to visit his own creators. Gohan, knowing full well that Sharpener would make the sixteen hour drive in one go, had asked Sharpener to be careful. Goten hadn't. He hoped that Sharp would be his own reckless self. Anything to get rid of that truck.

Once arrived at his parents, Goten waved Sharp goodbye and watched as he bolted away in a yellow streak. Goten sighed and turned towards the house. He never liked these visits. They were always grim reminders of what he called the 'would'a, could'a and should'a'. But stabbing at what might have been was still a sad compensation for the ugly truth.

He let himself in and dropped his coat on the rack behind the door. From here he made a beeline to the living room. The curtains were closed to a sliver. A strip of sunlight fell into the room and in this light particles of dust rose and fell like snowflakes. Reminder number one.

Gohan was sitting by a hospital bed. The rails had been drawn up to keep its occupant from falling out. Not that the wires wouldn't stop her from taking a tumble. Reminder number two.

In this bed his mother lay, her eyes open but heavy and a ghost of a smile curving her lips. Gohan was telling her how well Pan, her granddaughter, was doing in school. She loved hearing about Pan. And Goten had to admit that she really was a bright little girl.

Goten took his place by Gohan's side after pressing a kiss to his mother's cheek. A hand landed his neck as he did so and weak fingers clutched at the roots of his hair, then fell away, no strength to keep them in the air. Reminder number three.

He sat there and listened for a while. Pan was doing fine, Gohan assured their mother. At times she could be a bit prissy, something she had no doubt inherited from the frail woman surrounded by tubes and wires.

On her good days she didn't need them, although the fatigue would have her bedridden before dinner time rolled around. On her bad days the pain was so great that smiling alone hurt her. She would spend them sedated from her throat to her toes.

Gohan's remark made Chi-Chi laugh and for that Goten was glad. He was glad she still could. A lot of the things that made her who she was were now impossibilities.

Laughing took a lot out of her, though. No more than fifteen minutes later the sedatives got the better of her and she fell asleep. Once the first snores left her, Goten marched to the kitchen and took out all the cleaning supplies he thought might be of use. He threw half of them at Gohan, who was quick on the uptake. Together they cleaned the living room, hallway and kitchen. It didn't have that Chi-Chi sparkle to it, but it would do.

Halfway during the process their father came home. Goku stumbled into the house on tired legs, dropping his satchel of work clothes by the coat rack. He had bags under his eyes and stubble on his chin at least a week old. Splotches of grey peppered his beard and made him seem older than his years. He was going on fifty, but looked to be seventy.

Goten provided him with a cup of coffee and a microwaved dinner. He spoke to his father as he cleaned.

"How was your day?" he asked as he brought the carpet brush back and forth. Bundles of pill had gathered between the piles and Goten was intent on getting them out. Some of his mother's cleaning habits had rubbed off on her children.

Goku took a bite of his reheated lasagna and considered the question. "Not too bad, I guess," he said. "The office was alright, you know, just the regular, but the night shift really got me tired." Goku worked two jobs. At the first he cleaned office buildings. At the second he worked nights in one of the city's greasiest burger joints. When Goten flared his nostrils, he could smell the scent of roasted beef wafting off his father.

"Good," Goten said. "And tomorrow is your day off, right?"

Goku nodded. "Uh-huh. I was thinking of taking your mother out for a walk if she feels strong enough."

Father and son turned their focus on the shape lying in the hospital bed. Goten hoped that his dad would be right, but he doubted it. A loud clang came from the hall and pointed out Gohan's location.

"And how are you boys doing?" Goku asked while shoving his lasagna aside. "Did you have any luck selling Master Roshi's old things?"

"Oh for sure!" Goten answered. "He had a lot of furniture that sold out almost right away. We also sold some of his art already. But we still have a giant pile of crap to sort through."

Goku raised his eyebrows. "Crap?"

"Or, well, maybe that's not the right word. But the guy had some seriously strange stuff, Dad. Gramps is gonna help us sort through it all tomorrow, but I'm not sure if we're gonna be able to sell even half of it. I mean, I saw a fan as big as myself! Who in their right mind would want to buy that?"

"People like Master Roshi, I assume."

Goten wasn't too sure. "Maybe, but there was only one Master Roshi and he is gone now. Baba called this stuff treasure, but I find it hard to believe. I had hoped that we could've gotten some more for the furniture." His eyes fell on his mother again. With the money they had made so far they were able to take over some of the hospital payments, but it still left Chi-Chi in her own living room, dying slowly. Hope of a better tomorrow didn't cover the expenses of a specialist.

"Keep your head up, Goten," Goku told him. "You made a right choice when you asked your grandpa to help you. Not only does he know the worth of a lot of that stuff, he can probably also help you find the right buyer."

Goten considered this. "And maybe Baba can help a bit too."

"That's the spirit," Goku said. "Now go see what that brother of yours is up to. If he breaks any of Mom's vases she'll strangle him with her IV drip."


Gramps was cheery when they arrived. The man's bulk made him a sight to behold as he ran at his grandsons, arms splayed wide and ready to crush them into a hug. Gohan and Goten freed themselves from this lethal embrace and carried the two banana crates full of trinkets inside the house.

True to the thrift shop spirit, Mao's home was a collection of secondhand things. Half of his household effects came from the store itself. Gohan appreciated the sight of it in silence and then went about laying everything in the crates out on the coffee table. He took delight in this process, making sure that everything faced his way and that every item got the needed breathing room. From the corner of his eye he could feel Goten scrutinizing this behaviour.

Mao came in with a pot of coffee big enough to drown kittens in. He placed a tea tray with cups and sugar on a rickety side table, for Gohan had taken up all the immediate space. The man's dark eyes roamed over the collection on display.

"You boys have really hit gold this time," Mao told them. Big hands caressed the items. "This stuff here is really great."

Goten's eyebrows almost disappeared into his hair. "Really? This old junk?"

Both Gohan and his grandfather replied in the exact same fashion. "Old junk?" they nearly shouted. Then they looked at one another and laughed.

"This isn't junk, Goten," Gohan said. "I did some checking around and found some interesting things. See those figurines over there?" He pointed at four tiny sculptures of ballerinas, all of them in different poses. Goten confirmed that yes indeed, he did see them. And then he asked what was so special about them.

"They're part of a line of figures made by Master Mutaito. They're all one of a kind, so you won't find another set like this in the whole world."

"Why does that name sound familiar?" Goten asked.

"Master Mutaito was Master Roshi's art teacher," Mao said. "He taught Roshi all he knew about art and appraisal."

"So these puppets are actually worth money?"

"About five hundred bucks apiece," Gohan said.

Goten whistled between his teeth. "Damn."

Mao took the figurines and put them aside into a cardboard box. The side of this box read APPRAISED, penned with Goten's blocked out, square handwriting. Over the course of an hour many more items found their way into this box. Gohan kept a mental score; by the time they stopped for a coffee break the contents added up to a mind-boggling eighteen grand.

His heart felt like it had been clenched into a warm and loving fist. For one it felt fantastic to know that they would be able to provide the proper care for their mother. Chi-Chi's sickbed had consumed almost two years of their lives at this point and despite the love he held for his mother, Gohan felt exhausted. Drawing a smile over tears was tiresome.

At the same time Gohan felt a thrilling rush at the prospect of dealing with this large a sum of money. They had over eighteen grand worth in the cardboard box now and Gohan estimated that at the end of the day the numbers would exceed thirty thousand. They would be able to send their mother not only to a specialist, but do so in a grand fashion. Gohan, who was used to a life of modesty, felt almost frightened by the adding of the digits.

After coffee and biscuits Goten took the liberty of excusing himself to lounge in the backyard. Gohan remained with his grandfather and helped with appraising as much as he could. Even so a lot of the items didn't get a price tag just yet. Gramps decided not to voice his opinion on several instances. He did however leave Gohan with a very good tip in finding out their worth.

"I know for a fact that Master Roshi kept track of everything that he bought or sold. Do you remember his notebook?"

Gohan nodded and downed the last of his cold coffee. "Sure I do, Whenever we came over to get stuff for the store he would carry it around. It was brown and about the size of my palm, right?"

"That's right," Mao said. "It should tell you everything you need to know about what you don't know." He gestured at the remaining pieces in the collection. "And I'm pretty sure that Baba has it lying around."

Gohan considered this. "That's a very good idea. I'll see if I can swing by her house tomorrow."

Mao added another bit of advice. "Sounds good. And if you do, ask if he had a black book as well."

"Is it a contact book?"

Mao hummed from the depths of his belly. "You'll find the names and numbers of art collectors and dealers. If you play your cards right you can get rid of all of this in the next two weeks."

And that surely deserved a visit to Baba. Gohan considered telling Goten this, but decided against it. Though Baba enjoyed the kid's company, she had more than once confided in Gohan that she disliked the way he crumbled his cookies all over the place. Gohan would rather not have her hold a broom when he asked to go digging in Master Roshi's belongings.


Much like he had expected, Baba was glad to invite Gohan into her house. She claimed that she was about to throw out the abundance of paper that Roshi had left in his wake.

"To be frank, Gohan, I don't think you'll find anything of note in there," she told him as they wound their way up a spiral staircase. "Most of the paperwork up there consists of those dirt magazines of his."

Gohan chuckled into his hand. "No problem, Baba. I know what I'm looking for, so I think I'll be able to avoid too much nudity."

"That's what every man says," Baba muttered.

Baba's attic was cluttered. Gohan spied some objects that he had sold Baba over the last few months gathering dust; she preferred to talk about them rather than display them. Boxes upon boxes of papers, catalogues and magazines had been crammed into the far corner of the room. Baba asked Gohan if he would manage for himself and he assured her that he would. After that she left him to his own devices.

Gohan was soon enthralled in the things he found in Master Roshi's paperwork. A lot of it detailed the purchase or sale of the art he had collected over the years. Gohan, being a smart cookie, had taken his own notebook along and penned down all the information that seemed even the least bit useful. There were names of traders among them, as well as collectors. Gramps had been right; this way they could pawn off the rest of Roshi's inheritance without much trouble.

As Gohan dove deeper into the boxes he came across papers that had yellowed with age. Halfway down he encountered what he was looking for; both the brown and the black book. Gohan rifled through them and was happy to note that they contained all the information that he might want, and probably more. Some of the names in the black book were familiar to him and belonged to some of the most esteemed art collectors in the world. One stuck out like sore thumb: Bulma Briefs.

It struck Gohan then just how influential Master Roshi had been. Bulma Briefs was one of the richest women in world, if not the richest. Gohan had seen her on television many times. She was a philanthropist and regularly appeared at galas or fundraisers. If he could convince Goten to spice up the sales talk, perhaps they could do some very rewarding business with her.

Curiosity got the best of him and he looked through the remainder of Master Roshi's paperwork. Maybe he missed something along the lines, he wasn't sure.

Turns out he hadn't. It all went on in the tradition of the papers above. Gohan was about to head back downstairs when he noticed something peculiar. A small square of paper had been folded up and placed against the side of the box. He had almost missed it entirely.

He took it out and unfolded it. His eyebrows knitted together when he read the content.

It was Master Roshi's handwriting. He had given a date too and this came as a surprise. Roshi had signed this note four days before he had died of a heart attack in a dressing room. It told of an item Roshi had acquired, that much Gohan could tell. It didn't state a seller of a price though, nor a potential buyer. It only said the following:

Dragon Ball. See BB. P 227. Hide.

What was puzzling about this was that Master Roshi felt the need to hide something. As soon as this thought passed through his head, in came clarity. This wasn't the first time that he had noticed this air of secrecy. Gohan knew right away what a Dragon Ball was supposed to be.

But why did it require such an amount of safeguarding?

Gohan read the note again and deduced that BB meant Brown Book. He flipped it open and went to page 227, only to discover that it had been torn out. He couldn't refrain a sigh from passing his lips. He felt that thrill rise in his chest once more, this time fueled by mystery rather than security. He wanted to know what this Dragon Ball was so important. A gnawing sensation in his gut told him that he wouldn't be too pleased when he did find out, because apparently the truth had been enough to scare Master Roshi into hiding it.

One thing he did know for sure. He was going to find that note even if it took him a month.


Art is beauty and craftsmanship is art. This conviction has resonated in Gohan's heart for as long as he could remember and he would immediately vouch for Gramps in that regard as well. There were others like him -thrift store owners, collectors- who shared this ideology. What no one could expect, though, was that even art can have sharp edges. If you didn't watch out it could kill you.

This knowledge reached Yajirobe far too late. The man could be considered unintelligent by most, and most would be correct. Yajirobe had a very bad sense of looming danger, as well as an underdeveloped ability for reading between the lines. This was why he chose to ignore all the notes that kept arriving in the mail. Yajirobe was sure that it was just some nut job bored with his life. And when that headcase didn't get the desired response, he kept adding fuel to the fire.

So when Gohan and Goten were lugging banana crates full of collector's items over the threshold of their grandfather's house, Yajirobe strolled out of his house in his favourite orange bathrobe. The sun was blazing and promised a rewarding afternoon of drinking beer in the backyard. Maybe he would listen to the oldies channel as he did so; he enjoyed himself a helping of smooth jazz every now and again.

He went for the mailbox and was not at all surprised to find another note there. At first they had been almost demure, but as time went by the messages became increasingly threatening and violent.

Give it. This one read. I know you have it. Give it and maybe I'll let you see it one more time before you die.

Yajirobe shook his head and crumpled the note into his fist. This psycho was still getting his freak on, that much was for sure. Yajirobe knew that nothing would come of it, but that still didn't make it any less annoying.

The rest of his mail consisted wholly of correspondence from his clients. While Yajirobe wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, he was one hell of a businessman. In a little over seven years he had grown from a nothing to a millionaire. It had all started when he had bought a coffee table from a flea market. He had considered the piece of rotten old wood, thinking that it would look great with a lick of paint, but he hadn't gotten far. He was about to shove the thing -and dammit, it was heavy- into the back of his car, when a man tapped him on the shoulder. Yajirobe had whirled on the spot in the empty parking lot, nearly decking the guy on the nose.

As it turned out he wasn't some lunatic or anything. No, the poor schmuck had seen the table in Yajirobe's hands and had recognized it for what it was: A Korrin piece. This name was of no information at all and after a brief explanation Yajirobe learned that Korrin had been a carpenter whose work had immense value these days. Yajirobe, being as business savvy as he was, had taken down every important detail before selling the table off to this man. After that he had begun to specialize in Korrin furniture.

The memory of this clouded out Yajirobe's thoughts and his feet carried him to the yard on automatic pilot. Pride swelled in his chest when he thought of where he was now, of the fortune he had managed to acquire. And how smart he had been about it. Apart from three confirmed pieces. he owned every bit of Korrin there was to own. That also meant he could ask the grand prize, should someone be interested.

He laughed into his fist when he sank into a lounge chair, recalling just how desperate Bulma Briefs had been to get her hands on a beauty like that. And he had laughed all the way to the bank.

He scanned the letters from his clients and decided that none of them were so urgent that they had to be seen to today. And it wasn't like they were going to find another Korrin dealer anywhere. They probably wouldn't even find that old broad that had nicked one away from under his nose. Baba was her name. Yajirobe had known her brother quite well. Roshi, though weird, had been one hell of a businessman as well. He had helped Yajirobe several times over the years and Yaji even went through the trouble of returning the favour now and again. They had seen each other just last week. The news of his passing had made Yajirobe neglect his morning tea, something he never ever did.

Still he had to ask Baba, though. Was there anything that she didn't want from Roshi's inheritance? Let's say a cutlery drawer, or a chaise lounge? Anything at all would be great. Imagine his surprise when she swung her broom at him and shouted that he should check out the thrift store by Maroon Road if he really was that desperate.

It was then that his train of thought fell silent. Something was off. The sky overhead was abeautiful pale blue and heralded the coming of spring. So why wasn't he feeling any sun on his -admittedly abundant- skin?

And there was the problem. Two people were standing over him, one of them with their arms crossed and the other just standing tall. Yajirobe blinked stupidly at the sight in front of him, then was too slow to avoid the handle of the hammer that came for his face.

Something snapped and he knew that his nose was broken. He tried to scream but most of what came out were gargles. Bubbles of blood were pouring down his throat and made speaking impossible. He went backwards and took the lounge chair with him. Another one of the dumb thoughts that passed thoughts his head was that he would never get the cushions cleaned.

The two figures moved to stand over him. They had their backs to the sun and it was difficult to make out their appearances. The one with his arms crossed was bald and had rings in his ears and nose. Pearly white teeth gleamed just as hard as the jewellery. The other was at least two heads taller than the first, three if you added his hair. It had been styled into the air and parted down the middle. Yajirobe could see streaks of green in the black.

Then the hammer came down again and the lights went out.

They went back on hours later. Yajirobe made to grab for his temple, but he soon learned that his arms had been tied behind his back. What he had at first believed to be a hangover now revealed itself. He had been kidnapped.

Millions of possible reasons shot through his brain like bullets, though the only logical conclusion he could come to was that they wanted to steal from him. But why they had to take him along for the ride was a mystery to him.

Also, he couldn't see where he was.

He tried yelling for help for a few minutes. His throat felt like sandpaper and clotted blood made his voice thick. The added pressure on his head made it throb like an infected tooth. And nobody came.

When the realisation began to sank in that nobody would come to help him, he tried to struggle free of his bonds. The rope used to bind him was strong and cut into his wrists and forearms. From the feel of it he had been tied to a wooden chair. Escape wasn't an option either.

So Yajirobe did the only thing he could still think of left to do. He cried. He bawled like a little baby, sobbed like a child and then cried some more. He was going to die. The burning shards of cartilage in his face told him so.

His captors were there almost entirely at once. Or maybe they had stood at the back of the room laughing into their fists as they watched this fat man blubber and cry for his life, until they had had enough of it, that was. One pair of hands began taking away the ropes while the other undid the blindfold.

Once he had blinked the glare of sudden light away, Yajirobe found himself facing the bald man with the nose ring. He backed away so fast that he tumbled backward again like he had done in the yard. Only instead of falling on grass he fell down on a stack of hay. At least that told him where he was.

The man with the black-green hair was there too and hoisted the chair back onto its legs. He grabbed Yajirobe by the arm and gave a more than rough pull. Yaji cried and almost smashed the chair into pieces when he landed in it. Then he was absorbed by the silence.

He was in a barn, which meant that he had to be somewhere outside of the city. Farms weren't built on rooftops, that much he knew. The bald man was standing in front of the double doors that lead outside. Here was a dirt road which wound its way into blackness. They were in the middle of nowhere.

Nowhere to run. No one to hear him scream either.

A solitary light bulb dangled over their heads. When the bald man bent over it was reflected back into Yajirobe's face from all directions; all the facial piercings were making it even worse. He thought of opening his mouth, ask this weirdo in front of him what he wanted and what his intentions were, but the bald man was faster than he was.

"Where is it?" The man asked. A cold spot formed in Yajirobe's lower back and spread all the way to his neck and toes. This was one serious loony, he could tell that straight off the bat. The bald man had a smile on his face, a genuine one, almost kind-looking. But his eyes, a mystifying fuschia in colour, contradicted his mouth so violently that it made Yajirobe want to vomit with fear. The man's voice was velvety and nasal.

Yaji made to speak and broke out into a coughing fit. His head exploded with blinding pain, first at his temples and then from the ruins of his nose. Blood sprayed everywhere like a fine mist. The bald man took the full blast but remained motionless.

The third occupant of the room went to stand beside the bald man. Now Yajirobe saw that he was dressed in an ornate, grey-green pinstripe suit. A white bowtie with dark green dots drew the whole ensemble together. When this man spoke, the voice that came out was deep and haughty, dripping with arrogance.

"You were saying?" The man crouched in front of Yajirobe and gave his a little pat on the cheek. "Speak up now, little man. We need to hear when you talk."

Yajirobe gave a sharp inhale through his mouth and spat out the words like he had done with the blood.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The bald man tutted his lips and shook his head as if disappointed by the behaviour of a child. "My dear man, I do think you're lying."

"I ain't kidding, seriously! I have no clue."

"So you haven't received our correspondence? I thought we had made ourselves quite clear."

"No we haven't," the other man interrupted. "It's always the same with you and these cryptic notes of yours. You have serious trouble getting to the bloody point."

The bald man rolled his eyes at the remark. "And leave a papertrail as clear as the grey hair you're trying to hide?"

"Why you little..."

Smirking, the bald man turned to Yajirobe. "It seems like we did have a bit of a misunderstanding. My apologies. Now, if I asked you where I can find the Four Star Dragon Ball, would that ring any bells?"

Yajirobe frowned and thought hard. Perhaps, if he could swing the odds of this conversation in his favour, he might live to see another day.

"Dragon Ball..?" He hadn't intended it to sound like a question and his heart leapt into his throat when their expressions changed. This sudden rush of adrenaline was enough to send the memory of it rocketing back with such force that he actually screamed in excitement.

"It seems our little friend does know something," the bald man pointed out.

"I do, I do!" Yajirobe cried. "I do! I found that thing on the shorelines years and years ago. It's about the size of a grape, an orange crystal ball? Right, well I thought the thing wasn't worth much so I never tried to sell it. I only got rid of it about two weeks back."

"Is there any chance you could be so kind as to tell us where you get rid of it?" the green man asked. "I wouldn't want to do this whole charade of pretending to get angry."

"I pawned it!" Yajirobe said. "Sold it to Master Roshi, an old friend. His collection is much bigger than mine and he seemed interested in it for some reason. I let it go for a soft price."

The bald man gave a little groan that made Yajirobe pee himself from fear. Warm urine spread through the front of his pants. The green man pulled his nose up in disgust before asking the obvious question.

"And where can I find this Master Roshi?"

"Eternal Rest Cemetery. He died last week."

"Then you have my condolences," said the bald man. "And would you say that the Dragon Ball is now lost to you?"

In his fear of death Yajirobe told them all he knew.


The fat man had screamed until his last breath had left him, and the sound of it had been beautiful.

The bald man considered his captors dying wails with a sense of serenity. And now that the witness was dead he could actually call his partner by name again. He himself was called Frieza. The other man's name was-

"Cell," Frieza said, a sigh leaving him along with the word. "There really is no need to dig this deep. This farm has been abandoned for years. Nobody will come. Especially not on a corpse hunt."

Cell was standing in a hole in the dirt about as deep as he was tall. And he was going on seven feet. The hair made him even more of an imposing figure. Though right now, as Frieza sat himself down by the mountain of soil by the makeshift gave, all he could see where to black-green slices of hair bobbing up and down every time Cell heaved his spade.

"So what are we going to do now?" Cell asked, tossing yet even more dirt out of the hole and onto the pile.

"Isn't that obvious?"

"Does it involve more cryptic notes?"

"You know me so well."

"Why?" Cell asked. "It's not getting us anywhere."

"No, but it certainly is fun."


Gohan was late today. Though Goten found it unusual, he paid it no particular mind as he opened the store that Monday. Winter had really turned its back on the people now and he felt overdressed in his large faux-fur, but he kept wearing it cause the ladies kept giving him looks over it. That they looked at him like that because they wondered how overheating hadn't killed him yet was a thought he chose to ignore.

He took the paper from the mat by the door and strolled into the office without giving it a glance. Just as he was firing up the coffee maker, Gohan came into the store, looking like he was trying to solve the world's most difficult riddle. Goten observed this as he leaned against the small kitchen counter crammed between the filing cabinets and shelves full of binders. Deciding that he could do with some amusement, he pressed the button for two cups of brew.

The loud bray of the coffee maker shook Gohan out of his stupor. He jerked up so hard that he almost knocked his glasses askew. Goten laughed and apologized for the rude awakening.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" he asked. "You look constipated."

This got a laugh out of Gohan as well. 'Eh, not a whole lot. I'm just thinking about some of Master Roshi's old things that we still haven't managed to appraise. Gramps and I have bee-" he stopped short and pointed at the newspaper, which Goten had haphazardly tossed onto the kitchen counter. "What's that?"

Only then did Goten notice the pink sticky note attached to the top. Written on it in neat, loopy handwriting was the following message:

I know you have it.