CHAPTER 6 – What Remains (?)
Disclaimer: Don't own it. Honestly, if I were getting paid for this, I would definitely be more motivated to update faster.
"Eat up, Gohan," Chichi smiled cheerfully to her boy as she set down a bowl of rice next to his miso soup.
"Thanks, Mom," Gohan waited to lift his chopsticks until his mother sat down. Beside her, his father was halfway through the first course before she took her seat with a smile. "You're happy this morning," the boy pointed out.
Goku shovelled the last of his rice into his mouth before moving on to his egg.
"Why shouldn't I be?" Chichi beamed at him as she raised a demure amount of rice to her lips. "I'm just happy to have breakfast as a family, that's all."
Egg inhaled, Goku got started on his soup.
"Oh," Gohan proceeded to follow his father's example and tuck in to his meal. "I gueff tha's nife fur all ov uf."
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Chichi responded absently to her son.
With a long exhale, Goku set down his bowl and flicked a few fish into his mouth.
Gohan swallowed. "Yes, Mom."
"Well, if you must know," Chichi set her chopsticks down, "I'm especially happy this morning."
Goku helped himself to some more rice.
Gohan made a careful effort to wait until he finished his mouthful before speaking. "Why's that?"
"Well, today we're going to be starting you on that new calculus textbook, and you won't be tempted to daydream out the window this time."
Gohan blushed. "I don't . . . daydream," he hesitated. "I just, well . . . sometimes I need to . . . refocus my eyes a little . . ."
"Oh, hush," Chichi waved his excuse aside. "You know as well as I do that your father's training with that Piccolo," her tone steeled a bit on the name, "is distracting you when you work. It can't be helped, I suppose," she sighed, "since you can feel them fight even when you can't see them—but not today!"
"Huh? What's going on today?" Gohan looked from his mother's contented smile to his father, who had polished off his main meal and was attempting to drag over half the dumplings from the centre of the table to his plate. "Dad?"
Caught, Goku released all but three of the warm rice pastries. "Uh, well," he smiled sheepishly. "We got a call from Bulma last night, and she wants me to go over for a little while."
"Did something happen?" Gohan looked a little alarmed. "I know we both felt Vegeta's energy spike yesterday, but I thought he was just increasing his training. What's up, Dad?" his words rushed out. "Do we have to fight someone again?"
"Mmmph," Goku tried to start his answer with a dumpling in his mouth, earning him a glare from his wife.
He forcibly gulped it down under her gaze. "It's nothing like that," he held up his hands in a placating gesture, both to his wife and to his son. "Just something she wants me to check out. It's probably nothing, but she said she couldn't be there to do it—some kind of business meeting."
"Oh," Gohan almost looked disappointed.
"Hey," Goku slung an arm over his son's shoulders, "don't worry about it. I won't be gone all day—it won't interfere with our training. Besides, I can always just move our afternoon training closer to Capsule Corp. so I can do both at once."
"But not until the afternoon, right?" Chichi spoke in a deceptively calm voice. "Goku, remember you promised to split the time."
"Right, right," Goku agreed quickly. "I'll go on my own for the morning, Gohan, and when your mother lets you out of your lessons, we can meet up. How does that sound?"
"Okay," the boy picked at his food a little.
"What's wrong, Gohan?" his mother looked at his idle chopsticks with concern.
"Oh, nothing," Gohan sighed, putting his head in one hand. "I just . . . Mom, does it have to be the calculus book?"
"But I thought you liked the new book series I put you on."
"Well, the history and the anthropology stuff was okay, but . . ." he tried to make himself smaller under his mother's gaze. ". . . but I just . . . I don't really . . ." his voice trailed hesitantly, "don't really like math."
Chichi crossed her arms adamantly. "Gohan, you have to catch up on these things, and math is where you're farthest behind."
"Yeah, I know but . . ."
"And no distractions today," Chichi pressed. "You're going to make it through this lesson in record time."
Gohan looked a little deflated. "Yes, Mom."
"And then you'll be caught up enough to work on advanced classes—"
"Aww, come on, Chichi," Goku licked his fingers from the last dumpling. "Go easy on him a little."
"—advanced classes," she continued, "where you can spend your time," she looked at the slumped shoulders of her little boy, "studying . . . what . . . you . . ." she felt her heart melting a little at her son's pout, "what you want," she relented.
Gohan's eyes brightened. "Really?"
"Yes," Chichi reluctantly agreed, "but if it's stuff like anthropology and history you want to study, they'd better be the most advanced courses you can manage. I won't have you wasting the time you have here. We're going to make sure you get into the best schools possible, and that won't happen unless you have top scores in all your subjects—all of them. "
"Right, Mom," Gohan perked up a little.
"And you'll have to be that much better in the subjects that you do want to pursue—"
"Well," Goku stood up, "I'd better be on my way."
"—Goodbye, Goku—so when you apply to the top schools you can get scholarships," Chichi waved her husband off without missing a beat of her lecture. "We can't just buy our way in like those city kids do. You're going to have to work for it, and if you want to do something that isn't in the sciences, you'll have to be at the top of the class in order to get a good job anywhere afterward—"
Goku gave Gohan's shoulder a supportive squeeze before putting two fingers to his head and vanishing out of earshot of his wife's litany of scholarly pursuits and plans.
He hissed in a short breath when the fabric pressed against the gash on his shoulder. Even through the bandage, the area was tender, and Vegeta found it difficult to move his stiff muscles carefully enough to avoid irritating his injuries further as he dressed. The dark material of his bodysuit stuck uncomfortably to the burn wounds on his shins and his left arm, and the throbbing in his shoulder had hardly diminished since yesterday. He growled irritably and shoved his other arm in the sleeve of the suit before walking with a few laboured steps to the other side of the room, where the rest of his armour lay. Reaching down to pick it up, he stopped when a glint of light caught his eye.
The morning sunlight broke through some of the remaining cloud cover from the window and shone off the silvery helmet, still at the foot of his bed where he had left it the night before. As Vegeta turned it over in his hands, his fingers traced over the large dent beside the dark glass of the visor, feeling the place where his foot had crushed into the other alien's skull.
"There will . . . be more after . . . me . . ."
His scowl deepened at the thought of the Tritekian's wheezing breaths and pale, mirthless smile. I won't be hunted, he thought. Certainly not by trash like that—so weak they can't even be sensed. He turned the helmet over once more, examining the base.
"I won't ask again. Who sent you here?"
"My . . . last words . . . won't be a surrender . . ."
Someone had to send him. There's no way he could have survived this long and come all the way out here without help, his dark eyes bored into the helmet, as if it held the answers. But I made sure to eradicate all the Frieza bases I found when I was in space looking for Kakarrot. I'm sure of it.
"And to think, I had to fight for the privilege of being the one to take you out."
No, he couldn't have been working alone. And if isn't someone under Frieza . . . his fingers touched a button beside the visor, and a few numbers flashed to life.
"Power levels . . . followed them from . . . the scouter."
If the scouter could track where I was, there should also be a relay back to his ship, Vegeta surmised, continuing his examination of the base of the helmet. He caught a small latch, and a section below the visor clicked and fell into his open hand, detached. He glanced at it carefully, appraising it and deciphering its function before tossing it aside. I won't need the breathing apparatus. All that matters is the scouter. He lifted the helmet over his head, forcing his hair uncomfortably inside.
What a ridiculous design. If the scouter weren't wired into it, I'd rip it out and blast this tin can, he clenched his teeth in distaste before pressing the button on the side of the dark visor again. After a few moments of clicking and the appearance of several sets of unknown characters flickering in front of his eyes, he stopped. There, he turned his head, reading the figures on the screen projected through the visor. He focused his vision beyond the digitized characters and out the window, gazing toward the hazy form of the central mountains.
Removing the helmet, he breathed a little better as his hair sprang up off his neck. Still keeping his eyes focused on the distant mountains, their caps buried in last night's storm clouds, he clenched a fist. That's where I'll find my answers.
He turned his head back to the foot of his bed to pick up his armour and shrugged it painfully over his head with his injured shoulder. Taking a deep breath to ease the pain of the armour's added pressure over the wounds to his torso, he raised a hand to adjust the part over his bandaged gash. Absently, his hand grazed lower, and caught on the chipped opening to the left of his heart.
A sinking feeling dropped to the pit of his stomach at the contact, and he closed his eyes, remembering. He swallowed, forcing it down. I won't be hunted, he repeated to himself. I won't.
"Oh, I just feel so awful about the whole thing," Mrs. Brief had to take a step back from her skillet of eggs and bacon to wipe her eyes with her handkerchief.
"There, there, dear," Dr. Brief put a comforting hand to her shoulder, wincing a little as his wife noisily blew her nose. "You didn't mean any harm by it. We just have to be more careful about who we let in for tea and cookies now."
"I-I had no idea," she sniffled, "no idea that she was really a reporter. Oh," she moaned, grinding her face into her husband's chest, "I've gone and made a mess of everything."
"Now, honey," Dr. Brief hesitantly patted her back, a little uncomfortable at the wetness seeping through his shirt, "I know when I was serving as president we didn't have these sorts of problems, but Bulma's much more . . . photogenic. There'll be a lot more people coming around asking questions. We'll have to get used to keeping a few secrets now."
"But I'm terrible at keeping secrets!" Mrs. Brief wailed.
Her husband gave a small sigh before picking up his wife's chin in his hand, gently raising her puffy eyes to his. "I know, dear, and I love you for it, just the same. But let's keep some of these things in the family from now on, all right?"
Mrs. Brief dabbed at the tears in her eyes again with her handkerchief before offering up a small smile to her husband. "All right," she agreed.
"Good," Dr. Brief nodded. "Now, better keep an eye on those eggs before they burn," he redirected the blonde's attention to her skillet.
"Oh dear!" she fluttered over to her spatula and began stirring the sizzling contents.
Dr. Brief gave a small smile at his wife before he took a seat at the kitchen table, sorting through the post for the day with his coffee. Several corporate dossiers were piled atop lab reports and finance charges, all fresh from the hand of the night-shift intern. The doctor began sifting through the stack, his moustache rustling as he determined the urgency of each one.
"Honey," his wife addressed him, recovering from her sniffles as she placed the salvaged eggs and bacon on a plate. "Don't you think . . . we should hold some sort of . . . memorial service? She was such a charming girl." She set the plate down in front of him.
Dr. Brief looked up from the stack of letters, his eyes bright with warmth for the ceaselessly compassionate woman in front of him. "Of course we can, dear," he took her hand in his. "I'll do my best to find the next of kin—but we'll have to keep it small."
"More secrets?"
Rubbing his thumb along her small hand, Dr. Brief gave a small sigh. "I'm afraid so."
The pair of them only looked up when they heard another chair scrape slightly across the floor.
"Oh, good morning, Vegeta," Mrs. Brief was the first to address the surly-looking Saiyan. "Would you like some breakfast?"
Vegeta merely gave a nod as he took his seat, folding his arms over his chest.
Dr. Brief took a sip of coffee as his wife bustled over to the stovetop, appraising the man in front of him and taking particular note of his attire. "Heading out today, son?"
A brow twitched at the familiar term. Another nod.
"Probably for the best. With all that happened yesterday, it'll take me a couple days to get the ship back to standing upright, let alone get the gravity simulator online again." The older man went back to sifting through the mail after another sip of coffee. "I hope it won't affect your training too much."
"I've made adjustments to my regimen," Vegeta responded neutrally. "I'll be continuing my training elsewhere."
"Oh? Out and about then? Are you going to try different climates? I hear acclimation training is a good workout," Dr. Brief did not look up from his sorting.
"I hope you don't plan on training anywhere too cold," Mrs. Brief tilted her head at the Saiyan from her place in front of the stove. "At least not in that outfit. It's full of holes," she pointed out after serving up another plate and placing it before him. "You might catch cold."
Vegeta rolled his eyes as he picked up his fork and began his meal.
"I believe that's part of the idea," Dr. Brief began examining a letter, shifting his glasses and holding it at varying distances to read it better. "You're supposed to face the elements, dear—get the body toughened up to them and such. Of course, there are differing opinions on whether or not it's all that successful, but I imagine testing it out for a few days couldn't hurt anything."
"If you say so," Mrs. Brief set out the rest of the breakfast on the table and poured herself some tea. "But I still think he needs some decent clothes if he's going to be running off around the planet." She sat down beside her husband, cup in hand. "What's that you've got there?" she stirred it some.
"I believe," he smiled a little, raising the corners of his moustache, "this is that stipend I promised you, Vegeta," he handed the letter across the table to the Saiyan.
Vegeta continued to eat while the letter hovered in front of him.
"For the work you did on the droids and the lining of the gravity chamber," the doctor encouraged.
Vegeta barely looked up from his meal at the envelope. "Keep it," he grumbled.
"Now, I couldn't do that. You've earned it," Dr. Brief waved it a little in his direction.
"I said keep it," he glared. "Use it to make repairs, replenish your food sources, whatever. I don't want it."
"Use it for repairs?" the doctor blinked at him, confused. "Why on earth would I use your stipend to make repairs when you've already done so much to help us?"
Vegeta paused his eating.
"Oh, I told him all about it, sweetie," Mrs. Brief explained at the puzzled look the Saiyan was giving. "You know, how you saved us from that horrible man when he attacked. I saw the whole thing from the window. Oh, you were so heroic!"
He looked at her as though she had grown two heads. "I didn't—I'm not—"
"Nonsense!" she beamed at him. "Why, if it weren't for you, my beautiful little girl could've been killed! We should get you a medal to wear for what you've done."
"What is this ridiculous obsession you have with what I wear?" a vein began to twitch in Vegeta's forehead.
"I was only—"
"Enough," Vegeta began to rub his temple in irritation. "Just—just go out and buy clothes with it if it's so much of a concern. I don't care."
A gleam came to the woman's eye. "You mean it?" she smiled eagerly.
Vegeta caught on quickly. With a pointed look he leaned forward on his elbow, his face menacing over the small pot of sugar on the centre of the table. "Absolutely no pinks," he ticked it off on his finger, "purples, or patterns. Got it?"
"Oh, yes, of course," Mrs. Brief maintained her grin despite his threatening glare. "I understand. Only classic colours for you."
"Good, it's settled then," Dr. Brief slid the letter toward the Saiyan with a smile. "We'll need you to sign it first, and then I'll see to the rest. It might take a bit of time to open up an account for you, but once that happens, I'll make sure that all the rest of these cheques get deposited directly." He handed the younger man a pen.
Vegeta ripped open the top of the envelope with a swift flick of his finger, pulling out the blue water-marked paper and scanning over it with vague attention. His eyes narrowed slightly when they passed over a portion of it that informed him a percentage of the money was to go to the planet's pitiful government, but he resignedly flipped over the document and scratched out a strange series of characters that were to serve as his signature.
"Oh, you won't regret it," Mrs. Brief bubbled, snatching the paper as soon as the pen in Vegeta's hand stopped moving. "And I'll make sure to get you clothes for all types of weather for your training."
Vegeta did not acknowledge her as he polished off the rest of his breakfast. With his plate cleaned, he stood up brusquely and headed for the door.
"And don't worry about your measurements, Vegeta," Mrs. Brief called after him with a flirtatious wink. "I took good notes when you were in that hospital bed!"
Vegeta only paused at the door to give an involuntary shudder before proceeding outside.
The door opened to reveal a hazy sky, the tall, looming rainclouds having been pushed from the city overnight. The craters from yesterday's battle were filled with a few inches of muddy water, and the broken stumps of the decorative palm trees looked like soggy matchsticks. The wind ruffled his hair slightly as he exited, and he only made it a few steps before his departure was interrupted again.
The air suddenly depressed in front of him and he felt a large power level appear. Snarling, Vegeta crouched into a ready stance, raising a hand for an energy blast. Orange and blue wavered in his vision half a second before he heard it.
"Hey, Vegeta!" Goku materialised with a wave. "Woah, calm down," he blinked as he took in the other Saiyan's stance. "It's only me!"
The energy building in front of his hand only increased in intensity. "I know that, fool," Vegeta's tone sounded on edge. "What are you doing here, Kakarrot?"
"Hey, don't be that way," Goku tried to peer over the outstretched hand in front of him, ignoring the deadly energy accumulating there and giving a winning grin. "Bulma invited me here."
"Is that Goku I hear?" Dr. Brief's voice echoed out the door from the kitchen, followed by a few quick footsteps. "Goku!" he called out as he squeezed past Vegeta in the doorway, nudging him and causing the Saiyan to drop his arm and the half-formed blast to dissipate. "You made it! Good—I take it Bulma filled you in?"
Goku put a hand behind his head, a little embarrassed. "Well, sort of, but some of it didn't really make sense. She can get a little screechy when she's stressed."
"Well, come in then," the doctor put a hand on the taller man's shoulder, guiding him inside. "I'll explain it to you—have you eaten yet?"
"Well, I did have breakfast, but you know me," Goku smiled, "I can always—hey, where are you going, Vegeta?" he called after the other fighter as he shot off to the sky in a blue streak of light.
Vegeta managed to make it only a few thousand feet away before a familiar orange blur appeared in front of him. He stopped mere inches from crashing into Goku, scowling ferociously.
"Let me pass, Kakarrot."
"Hey," Goku put up his hands in front of his chest, both attempting to halt and to mollify, "I may not really know what's going on, but from what Bulma told me, it'd be better if we stayed here in case any more attacks happen. Then we could defend the place together, don't you think?"
"Idiot," a snarl was beginning to emerge from Vegeta's throat, "This is not your affair—and I could care less what happens to this pathetic place." He clenched his fists at the ready.
"Affair?" the Earth-bred Saiyan blinked at the choice of words. "Well, Bulma called me about it, so I guess it kind of is my business now," Goku tried to explain, "and from what she said, it looked like you defended her house pretty well." His tone seemed to linger, drawing out the last of his sentence suggestively. "You saved her when she was in tro—"
"The fool let his guard down—I acted on the opportunity," Vegeta cut him off. "What that woman does to get herself killed isn't my problem. Now, I suggest you let me pass," he began to power up, bristling blue spikes of energy around him, "unless you're prepared to finish what you start."
"Vegeta, we shouldn't be—" Goku's attention was caught by a shout from below. Glancing away, he saw Dr. Brief hailing him from the ground, waving his hand to beckon him downward. Before he could bring his eyes back to the fighter before him, he was spun to the side by a bright blue blur, and the only other glimpse of Vegeta he was able to catch was the contrail he left across the distant sky.
"Goku!" he heard Dr. Brief call him down. "Just let him go. When he gets like that, things tend to get broken—and I've already got my work cut out for me," the older man indicated the remains of the Capsule Corp. grounds.
From his vantage point, Goku could clearly make out the extensive burn tracks and craters indicative of a barrage of energy blasts scarring the normally pristine lawn, as well as the lopsided form of the once perfectly spherical Capsule 3 ship. He descended to the ground, giving another concerned glance at the damage before facing the doctor.
"Maybe you should start explaining from the beginning," Goku scratched his head.
"I don't care if you have to buy their whole damn company and sell it back to them," Bulma shouted at the intercom, "don't let them run the story until everyone's at the resort!" She gripped the control column of her plane more tightly.
"Y-yes, Miss Brief," Nancy's meek voice buzzed in.
Bulma pinched the bridge of her nose. "Look, Nancy, I know we can't keep them from printing the story altogether without breaking the law, but we need to make sure that we minimize the damage. If you could just get them to print it in the middle of the paper so that it's not that big a deal, I'll take care of the rest. Once I get all the big wigs out in the mountains and away from any cell or wireless service, it won't matter all that much."
"Right," came Nancy's response. "The ETA of the last company official on this retreat is a few hours from now. I'll try to push back the story's release until tomorrow."
"Good. And no front page headlines—I don't care how many pay-offs we have to do to keep this quiet. We can't afford to show any weakness right now—especially with . . . um, our experiments. Make them push it back to the middle of the entertainment section or something."
"I'll do my best, ma'am."
"Thank you, Nancy," Bulma switched off the intercom. Easing up on the throttle, Bulma took a deep breath as her plane flashed past the central mountains, heading north. The ground below echoed with the sonic boom from her passing, and the clouds beside her whisked by in a blur of white streaks.
I hope calling Goku was the right thing to do. There's just only so much I can do on my own . . . she thought as she passed a lumpy cumulonimbus that looked remarkably like a familiar wild, spiky hairstyle. As she adjusted her altitude in the most recent prototype for her company's new alloy, Bulma let her thoughts wander back to the day before, when the dirt and ash had clung to her skin as she watched Vegeta's retreating form stalwartly march into her house, drenched by the pouring rain that struck a tinny sound against the helmet he had been carrying under his arm.
Her eyes flicked quickly from the sky ahead of her to her left, where a medium-sized box sat, a small gleam of metal shining out from the open top.
"Hmph," a small smile spread across her lips. "Vegeta's not the only one who picked up a souvenir—and once I figure out how this thing works," her eyes turned steely, "I won't be caught off-guard like that again."
She lowered the plane through the cloud cover, now weaving around the mountain peaks. The ground below looked much like her surroundings had above the clouds—blankets of white over rising mounds as far as the eye could see. As she rounded another mountain, she caught sight of a few small specks down in the foothills. Coming closer, she could just make out the narrow streets between the buildings of Sage City as she flew overhead, and when she turned the plane sharply upward, she found her target: a large building complex perched atop one of the peaks, a few miles above.
"Perfect," she smiled, making her way to the brown cabin-like complex, "Sage City Mountain Resort, right on time." Levelling her plane, she slowed to a halt in front of the rustic building, hovering over the landing area as the engine idled to put on her jacket and make sure her boots were snug.
"Come on, you," she addressed the contents of her box like an old friend, "into the capsule with the rest of the contraband." Pressing a button on the side of the box, she waited for the smoke to clear before placing the neat little pill-shaped container into her case with the others. With a quick breath and a hand through her hair to remove it from her scarf, she stepped out of the car.
"Miss Brief!"
"I'm not here two seconds and already it's starting," she muttered.
"Oh thank goodness you're all right!" a familiar man with unkempt hair and narrow glasses was running in her direction, almost tripping over himself in the two feet of snow. He came up to her, his thin frame panting with the exertion. "I heard about the accident at your home compound. A laser malfunction—how awful! I hope it doesn't—"
"Shh! Mark, keep it down!" Bulma slapped a hand over the man's mouth. "Part of the point of this retreat is to keep that information in-house, okay?"
Mark nodded rapidly before extricating himself from her hand. "Right, right," he gave her an 'okay' sign. "Got it. How was your trip? Was the prototype working all right?"
"Still not as fast as I'd like," she pushed the encapsulation button on the side, picking it up after the smoke cleared. "Once I fix it up with a lighter skeleton, though, it should run fine," Bulma started walking toward the large wooden manor, indicating he should follow.
The snow got easier to walk in once they made it to the cleared paths. They walked past the frost-topped hedges up to the manor-style hotel. The many rooms of the complex were all connected under a series of peaked roofs, all topped with fresh snow and dripping with icicles. The exterior walls were made up of a series of stacked logs interrupted by frosted windows that gave off a warm, golden glow, even in the late morning sun. They came up to the heavy front doors and entered after tapping the snow off of their boots.
"Well, I just hope that the negotiations here go smoothly then," Mark trailed behind her as she made her way into the warm lobby. "Wright Materials has definitely got to be the most advanced in synthetics."
Bulma folded her arms smugly. "Not for long," she murmured, ringing the bell for service. They stood under an antler chandelier that appeared to spread from one side of the ceiling to the other, branching out with an impressive number of rustic lamps. The room had hardwood floors that somehow managed to appear aged without creaking under their feet, and the décor, though somewhat reminiscent of Daniel Boone, managed to be restrained enough to appear tasteful and even elegant in its own way.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," a pleasant older woman appeared behind the counter. "Oh my, Miss Brief," she blinked in surprise. "You're here early."
"Just checking in to make sure everything's all set up for the company retreat," Bulma smiled.
"Well, the rooms are all booked for tonight, tomorrow, and the following morning for both your company and Wright Materials' guests. We've also reserved the Great Hall for your events. Tonight is the icebreaker cocktail party, I believe."
"Right. What time will the hall be ready?"
"Oh, about seven."
"Great," the blue-haired heiress grinned. "I think I'll see my room and wait until then."
"Oh, but are you sure you don't want to check out the sauna or the spa to relax?" the concierge handed her the key to her room. "Or you could take a few slopes while you're waiting—best skiing outside of the northern capital."
"No, I think I just need a rest first. I might check those out later."
"You're crazy," Mark set down his ID in front of the elderly woman to collect his own key. "I know that first thing I want in this cold weather is a toasty seat in the sauna."
"There'll be plenty time for everything," Bulma tucked her key in her pocket with a smile. "Tell me, though," she leaned over the counter a little toward the concierge. "Is this place still famous for being isolated from all wireless and cell signals?"
"Oh yes," the woman nodded her head, her steel-grey bun bobbing. "We pride ourselves on being a real getaway. No pesky calls, no nosy e-mails, nothing to interrupt your vacation. It doesn't get us that many customers, but the ones who do come say they love the peace and quiet it gives 'em."
"That's exactly what I want to hear," Bulma tapped the countertop once happily before turning to her head scientist. "Come on, Mark. Let's go check out the digs. Then you can sweat your butt off in the sauna."
"It's just up the stairs and to your right," the woman at the counter called cheerily at the two as they headed off.
"It's not really fair, you know," Mark pouted a little when they made it to the top of the lacquered pine stairs. "You've got the new prototype phone for the demonstration while the rest of us have to sit here without any contact with the outside world at all."
"That's the whole point, remember?" Bulma reminded him as they headed down the hall. "In order for the demonstration to work, we need everyone to realise just how hard it is to get a signal here. It'll just be a few days—you can live without cell service and the Internet for that long, can't you?"
"That's like telling me to live without air!"
"Oh really?" Bulma rolled her eyes. "Besides work, what else do you do on your smart phone, Mark? Words with Friends? Angry Birds?"
Mark muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'Facebook,' but wisely chose not to press the issue too loudly.
"It'll do you good," she insisted, unlocking the door to her suite. "Besides, there's tons of stuff for us to do anyway. We've got the icebreaker tonight, then tomorrow morning is the demonstration."
"I know," Mark sighed. "Then in the evening it's the casino night and the next morning is the big negotiation."
"Right," Bulma nodded as she pushed open the door. "And in-between you can keep yourself busy on the slopes or in the sauna. Just relax a little! Take a vacation for goodness' sake. You're too high-strung."
"I'll try," Mark slumped his shoulders as he headed down the hall. "At least it's only three days instead of four like you planned," Bulma caught the tail end of his muttering as she closed the door to her room.
"So let me get this straight," Goku scratched his head again, "the attack yesterday was from a man with rockets in his shoes, and he attacked Vegeta because of the number nine?"
"Well, I didn't catch everything, but that's what it sounded like to me," Mrs. Brief nodded across the kitchen table from him.
"And this rocket-man killed a high school student who was at your house for an interview?"
"Not exactly," Dr. Brief took another sip of coffee while fiddling with a small laptop. "Bulma said she runs—ran a news blog, so whatever story she gave about being a high school student was probably false. She was a reporter." He turned the laptop toward the fighter so he could see the screen, which displayed a rather incriminating headline. "See?"
"Bulma Brief Harbours Mass-Murdering Alien," Goku read aloud. "Do you think that's why the rocket-guy attacked? Maybe he was from one of the cities that was destroyed when Vegeta first came here."
"Well, from what Bulma and her mother described, I highly doubt any of that technology he used came from around here," the doctor went back to work, typing away at the laptop. "No, it sounds to me like we're dealing with another alien—and I doubt that aliens have much time to surf the net or read blog articles."
"I guess not," Goku scratched his chin, "but how did he find out where Vegeta was?"
"I'd imagine the technology he had on him had something to do with that—but Vegeta didn't leave much of it behind once he was done with him. There wasn't much of anything left behind, come to think of it . . ."
"Oh," Mrs. Brief chimed in, "but he did have that shiny helmet—I saw him take it up to his room last night."
Goku's brows furrowed a little. "Then Vegeta probably knows something we don't and went to take care of this himself." He sent out a small sweep of energy to probe for power levels, and his brow twitched a little lower. "And he's suppressing his power, so I can't find him." He focused his attention across the kitchen table again. "What about Bulma, Dr. Brief? She said she couldn't be here because of a business meeting. When will she be back?"
"She'll be gone for the next couple of days," the older man continued to stare intently at his work on the laptop. "She managed to convince the press that what happened here was just an accident—an experiment gone wrong, you know—but she's got some sort of big negotiation in mind and had to get the corporate heads out of the city. This whole mess is just bad news all around."
"Yeah, I guess it would be bad for business," Goku put a hand to his chin in thought.
"Well, I know that Bulma sent you over here just in case something else happens, but I really don't see what you might be able to do now," Dr. Brief shifted his glasses at Goku, "unless you'd like to help me fill in the holes in the lawn."
"Well, I guess I could do that—but only until noon; I promised Gohan I'd train with him—and Piccolo too, for that matter," Goku responded, "but we'll move our training sessions closer so we can keep watch—just in case anything ha—"
"Oh! I have an idea!" Mrs. Brief bounced up suddenly, startling the two men. "You can find the dragonballs for us and wish that poor girl back to life!"
"Huh?" Goku gaped in surprise at the sudden interruption. "Oh, that reporter. That might take a while," Goku eased himself back out of the shock of seeing Mrs. Brief with an idea. "But I could try."
"Oh would you?" the blonde smiled at him. "You're such a dear, Goku."
"Of course," he smiled. "It's only fair, I guess—it's not really her fault that this happened."
Dr. Brief gave an absent pat to Scratch's ears, thinking. "There's no real rush, though," he amended. "I mean, you have your training, and it might not be . . . in our best interests to have her back so soon—especially when we don't have a handle on the situation just yet."
"But—" Pansy Brief began to protest.
"Now, dear," her husband raised a hand to quiet her, "it wouldn't do anyone any good to wish her back into dangerous circumstances, now would it?"
"Oh, I hadn't thought of that," she blinked.
"Besides, there's no evidence left that she was even here, and I can't seem to find any records of living relatives for her, even with my own networks and pass codes," he indicated the laptop in front of him. "It might be best to just keep quiet about it until the coast is clear and then wish her back."
"No living relatives at all?" Pansy Brief questioned. "How awful! When we wish her back we simply must offer her a place to stay!"
"Dear," Dr. Brief addressed his wife patiently, "you do remember that she was a reporter who was hoping to write an exposé on our daughter that could potentially put us out of business, don't you?"
"But that poor girl! It's no wonder she had such a terrible line of work—she just needed a good role model!" Mrs. Brief insisted. "We can't just wish her back to life and leave her to fend for herself again. She needs a family to take care of her!"
"But really dear, having her in our house?" her husband tried to reason with her.
"So young and all alone . . ." Mrs. Brief ignored him.
"And people say I'm too forgiving," Goku murmured.
"That'll be forty-two fifty-seven," the teenaged cashier read the register's screen.
"Right," Krillin fished in his pocket for his wallet as the young man in the apron began bagging his purchases. The fighter looked a little dismayed when he opened the leather flap to find a grand total of three specks of lint and an old receipt. "You take credit?"
"Fifty cent charge," the teenager pulled out a small machine for Krillin to slide his card.
"Great," the bald man rolled his eyes sarcastically, but got out his card nonetheless. "Just great," he muttered as he swiped.
"Rough week, huh?" The cashier asked as he bagged a twelve-pack of beer.
"What?" Krillin looked up only to flush red when he saw what the teenager in front of him was indicating. The countertop at the register was piled full of packs of cheap beer, fat stacks of "Puff Puff" and "Big Jugs" magazines, and a few boxes of mac-n-cheese. "Oh, uh—it's not . . . not for me . . ."
"I got you, bro," the teen winked conspiratorially as he finished up the bags and handed them to the bald fighter.
"No really, it's for—oh never mind," Krillin sighed as he took hold of the bags and walked out of the store, his mood sapping any energy he may have had to protest the cashier's assumptions. "That's the last time I do Master Roshi's grocery runs for him," he muttered to himself as the automatic doors closed behind him and he headed down the sidewalk to a space wide enough to deploy his capsule car.
The streets were somewhat crowded for a Friday afternoon, and quite a few city folk were out and about, despite the remaining puddles from the previous night's rain. Several business men were finishing up their lunch breaks late, stepping out of sandwich shops and cafés with their colleagues while a few mothers had taken their children out in strollers stuffed full of diapers, blankets, jackets, and umbrellas—just in case. A few college students walked ahead of Krillin, chatting and holding hands, quite obviously on a double date. The glum fighter walked with his head down, watching the cracks in the pavement pass under his feet, trying to ignore the fact that his hands only held bags full of the accoutrements of a lonely bachelor for life.
"Why can't I ever win? Just once I'd like to—oof!" his moping was cut off abruptly when he stumbled into another pedestrian.
"Oh, sorry there! I didn't mean to—Krillin?" a familiar voice asked. "What are you doing in West City?"
Rubbing his head from where it had impacted with the other man's stomach, Krillin finally looked up. "Yamcha? Hey," he greeted, slapping a smile on over his prior gloom. "Just on a day out, getting the essentials," he shrugged to indicate the bags in his hands.
Yamcha laughed. "Roshi out of beer again? Man, if I didn't think that guy would live forever, I'd say he'd die of liver damage."
"Yeah, well . . . some things never change," Krillin attempted to keep his smile, but could not help the corners falling a bit.
"You all right, Krillin?" Yamcha passed a concerned eye over the shorter man.
"Yeah, fine," the bald warrior shook his head to pull himself back into the conversation. "So what are you doing out and about? I'd have thought you'd be busy about this time."
"Baseball season's over," Yamcha explained. "I've got nothing but time now—at least until training starts up again."
"Really?" Krillin gave some polite interest. "I must admit, I didn't really pay much attention to the games. Did you guys win the series?"
"Hah, no way. Made it to the playoffs, but our lead pitcher choked—we got creamed from the second game on. You're lucky you missed it," Yamcha smiled. "It was hard to watch."
"Huh," Krillin pursed his lips in thought, "I really thought with you on the team the Taitans couldn't lose. I guess one guy really can't carry a whole team."
"I guess," Yamcha's smile never faded. "You need help with those?" he gave a glance to the grocery bags.
"Nah, I got it," Krillin gave another half-hearted smile, at which Yamcha narrowed his eyes.
"Are you sure you're all right, Krillin? You seem down," Yamcha tilted his head in inquiry. "Hey, how about a spar? I know I've been itching to get in some training with another fighter. What do you say?"
Krillin gave a sigh. "Not today, Yamcha. I'm . . . I'm not really in the mood," he started to walk past the other man.
"All right, now I know something's wrong," Yamcha put a hand on Krillin's shoulder to stop him. "You've been isolating yourself for weeks now," he turned Krillin slightly toward him, "and that's weird enough for a social guy like you, but you almost never pass up a chance to spar. What's up, buddy?"
Krillin's sighing increased. "I don't know . . . I just," he paused, puzzling over how to express himself. "I just haven't really felt motivated . . . you know, like . . . what am I fighting for? Who am I fighting for?"
Yamcha stepped back a little in surprise to hear some of his own doubts echoed by his friend. "You too, huh?"
Krillin's shoulders sagged, and it had little to do with the weight of his grocery bags. "Yeah . . . I mean, I just can't help thinking I'm going to be missing out on something—or everything, you know?"
"Believe me, I know," Yamcha gave an empathetic smile. "Hey, since we've both got some free time today, why don't you stop over at my place before you head back to Roshi's island? Puar said he was thinking of making something big for dinner tonight—and it sure beats Easy Mac."
"I don't want to impose on your day off," Krillin looked hesitant.
"Hey, no sweat," Yamcha clapped him on the back. "I'd like the company. Plus, you look like you could talk to someone who doesn't have their nose in a dirty magazine."
Enormous blue eyes stared fixedly behind thick goggles. "The circuitry is simple enough," Bulma muttered to herself, picking through a mess of wires and microchips, "but this power core . . . it's really something else." She gingerly edged her pliers around the pulsating teal cube. "I've never seen anything like it," the awe and curiosity left her voice breathy.
The laptop to her right flickered a new set of images, causing her to look up from her work to check. A segmented view of the southern geographic quadrant was filtered through an infrared lens, scanning over the mountainous terrain in blotches of red, yellow, and orange. A message popped up onscreen with a small error symbol: 'life force not found.' With an irritated few clicks, she started a new search and refocused her eyes on the project in front of her.
She had managed to prop up the remnants of the silvery cylinder that had almost been her demise not twenty-four hours prior. The entire device had cracked into to large pieces, full of multiple fissures, but much of it remained intact, and her deft fingers prodded and examined each singed circuit. The magnifying goggles over her eyes helped her guide her pliers around the mass of cables and semiconductors that nested around a softly glowing box about the size of a sugar cube. Her eyes could still only barely pick out the near microscopic sensor pieces on the ends of the wires that appeared almost like a miniature version of an electrocardiograph's electrodes. She squinted at the delicate craftsmanship, calculating.
She succeeded in picking at a few more wires and determining their sources before a high-pitched beeping startled her out of her technological reverie. Her cellular phone, attached with an Ethernet cable to her laptop switched from the 'wireless Internet output' screen to a ringing alarm bell. Glaring, she shut it off and sighed. "Time for the real world," she set her pliers aside and removed her goggles, making her eyes return to their normal size. With a last longing glance at the cracked metal remnants of the alien's gun, she stood up to get changed. "Got to go wow a few stiff-necked businessmen. But I'll be back for you later," she smiled before trotting off to the bathroom.
Not ten minutes later, Bulma stepped out in a set of sharp pumps and a snug violet dress, tying up her hair in a quick upsweep. Unable to keep herself away from her work, she put her earrings on distractedly with one hand as she clicked through various regions on her laptop with the other.
"Not even a heat signature? Come on, what is this guy—the invisible man?" Bulma huffed, starting another search. "People can't just disappear. If there's a lab out there, I should be able to find it!" She swept on a quick dab of lipstick as the fingers of her right hand typed out a new set of parameters in a flurry.
"Miss Brief?" a knock came at her door. "Are you ready yet?"
"Just a minute, Mark!" she called over her shoulder before hitting the return key. A progress bar slid slowly across the screen and Bulma stood up to let her top scientist in.
"Well, don't you look handsome?" Bulma smiled as she cracked open the door.
"Now, now," Mark chided, wagging a finger at her. "No exaggerated compliments now, or I'll have to file for harassment."
"Come off it," she let the man inside her suite. "You've known me since I was tagging along with my Dad to work, too small to push a company mail cart—and you were just an intern. I've known you for years. I wouldn't lie to you about something like that."
Mark adjusted his shirt collar over his skinny necktie. "I guess so, but if I look good, then you're a showstopper—you sure you're just looking for a negotiation this trip? It looks like you're going for a full merger," he pointed to the low neckline of her dress.
"Hey, it's still tasteful," she shrugged and gestured for him to take a seat on the suite's armchair while she applied the last few touches of mascara. "Besides, I'm not what's on the table, and you know it. Negotiations aren't until Sunday morning, so we should get in good with these guys now."
"You think the demonstration tomorrow will be enough to convince them?" Mark shifted his gaze from Bulma's preening to check out the rest of her room. The sun had just sunk beyond the horizon, and the dim light that came through her large, faceted window seemed to reflect blue off the top of the snow. A small 'beep' caught his attention and he glanced over to a compact table set up near the bed. There were tools and notes alike strewn in every direction, as well as some room service trays with empty cups of coffee stashed in the corner. A pair of pliers stuck up awkwardly from what looked like pieces of an elongated silver canister. A laptop nearby flashed several images before giving a warning sound and an error message. "Jeez, what is that?" he pointed. "Did you bring an entire lab with you?"
"Hm?" Bulma moved the mascara wand away from her eye to follow his finger. "Oh that. It's not a whole lab, but pretty close, huh?" she smiled proudly. "I whipped it up for trips like this. I mean, after my ordeals on Nam—uh, on some camping trips—I figured it'd be handy to have a functioning workstation I can take with me wherever I go. It can even run on solar power if I need it to. Jealous?"
"Yeah, actually," Mark had stood up to examine it closer. "And it all encapsulates?"
"You bet," Bulma gave one last check in the mirror before heading over.
"That's really incredible, Bulma," his awe overrode his usual formality in her name. He checked a few drawers and compartments on the table, noting that they were fully stocked with all kinds of electrical and engineering equipment. His eyes fell on the laptop again. "What're you searching for? This another project for us?" His hand hovered toward the mouse pad.
Bulma snapped the laptop shut, narrowly missing Mark's fingers. "No peeking," she chided.
"All right, all right," Mark put up his hands in apology. "Sheesh. You're like your dad, you know? Never letting anyone see stuff until you've got all the finishing touches on the final product."
"And don't you forget it," she smiled, relieved that she had avoided explanation.
"Well, are you ready then?" Mark put his hands on his hips. "Or are you going to keep working up here and just let everyone from Wright Materials start drinking without you?"
"I'm ready. I have to chat with the heads of each department anyway—get a handle on how they operate."
"Yeah, well you're in for a treat," Mark opened the door out of the suite for her. "I overheard the Prince of Plastics himself complaining about the lack of wireless service at the front desk."
"Prince?"
"Yeah, the Sultan of Synthetics, the Master of Metallurgy," Mark elaborated dramatically, "that Material Mogul, Dan Wright himself."
"So, the CEO's missing his connections already?" Bulma picked up her purse. "Good. That'll make the demonstration tomorrow morning more effective."
"Yeah, he's in a real foul mood. Everyone is, thanks to your brilliant plan," Mark rolled his eyes.
"Well, I'll just have to give him a little hint of our demonstration to whet his appetite, won't I?" she disconnected the prototype phone from her laptop jack, flourishing it dramatically before putting it into her purse.
Mark's eyes hardly left the phone, envious. "Now you're just being cruel."
"Wow, that was great, Puar," Krillin set down his chopsticks and pushed his bowl away. "I didn't know you knew how to cook like that."
The little cat across the table from him blushed, tingeing his blue fur purple. "Well, somebody has to take care of Yamcha. He's hopeless in the kitchen."
"Hey, I'm not that bad . . ." Yamcha pouted at his companions after patting his full stomach.
"Yamcha," Puar gave his friend a long look, "the last time you tried to cook, we were scrubbing the stove top for weeks." The cat floated around, collecting plates from the two humans and stacking them up in his tiny paws.
"It wasn't for that long!" the scarred fighter complained.
"A week and a half anyway," the cat retorted before floating upward and picking up his own plate.
"I got that," Yamcha smiled politely as his companion reached for the dishes in front of him. "At least let me prove I'm good for something. You relax. You've worked hard enough making this meal."
All too happy to oblige, Puar set the plates into the hands offered. "Great," he squeaked happily. "Now I can finish my reading tonight. I just got to the good part where the king of the thieves captures the lady and—"
"I'm sure I can hear all about it when you finish it . . . or when the movie comes out," Yamcha cut him off a little disinterestedly. "Whichever comes first."
"Your loss," the cat called over his shoulder, nonplussed, as he drifted out of the room.
"You want help with that?" Krillin offered from his seat at the table.
"Nah," Yamcha brushed it off with a shrug. "I can handle this. There's some beer in the fridge if you want, though." The ex-bandit set the dishes in the sink and started the tap. "I think I left the opener in the living room," he added.
Krillin opened the refrigerator and selected a brown bottle from the back before heading to the next room. He took a seat on the low, worn couch, brushing aside a few sports magazines to the coffee table, where he found a set of keys with a bottle opener hooked on.
With a small hiss and a pop, the lid was off and he took a few slow sips. A clock ticked on the far wall as he felt himself sink into the cushions, and he stared over the top of his bottle to the large entertainment centre across from him. There were several photographs scattered on top of it—apparently in no particular order, he noted as his eyes scanned them. Shots of martial arts tournaments past, summer barbeques at Capsule Corp., and beachside afternoons at Master Roshi's island sat within various frames, and his eyes unconsciously settled on one of them that had a head of blue hair nestled close to his scarred friend. He took another drink and dug out the remote from between the cushions.
Click.
"So is this the dress?"
"Yes, yes, yes! This is my dress. Oh my gosh, I can't believe it. It's so perfect—I feel so beautiful! This is the one!"
"Did you just say 'yes' to the dr—"
Click.
"John, what are you doing? Why are you kneeling?"
"Brenda, my darling . . . will you make me the happiest man in the world and ma—"
Click.
"Why didn't you write to me? Why?"
"I wrote you every day for a year! It isn't over! It still isn't o—"
Click.
"Come enjoy a relaxing stay at our tropical island resort. Perfect for romantic getaways and honeymo—"
Click.
"If that plane leaves the ground and you're not with him, you'll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life."
"But what about us?"
"We'll always have Pa—"
Click.
"And if anyone should know of a reason why these two should not be together, speak now, or forever hold y—"
Click. The television went black and he chucked the remote to the other side of the couch before downing over half the bottle he held. He rubbed his face with his hand.
"Woah, almost done already?" he heard Yamcha stop halfway into the room. "Hold on, I'll get another one." There were some footsteps and a couple of clinks before the taller man took a seat in the dingy armchair beside him.
Yamcha picked up his keys and flicked the top off his beer. "So what's really going on, Krillin?" he asked with genuine concern. "I haven't seen you this down since . . . well, I can't remember when I've seen you this down."
Krillin took a breath before finishing off his first bottle and moving on to the second one Yamcha had brought out for him. He spent a few minutes sloshing the beer around in the bottle before staring down at his feet and slumping his shoulders.
"It's Maron."
Yamcha took a thoughtful swig. "I thought it might be problems with a girl."
"That's just it," Krillin still did not look up from his shoes. "I'm not with her."
"Well, you broke up with her," Yamcha quirked a brow. "Why don't you just tell her you want to get back together?"
A faint blush crept from his cheeks to his bald head. "Its . . . it's not that easy," he hesitated. "I mean," he swallowed another mouthful, "we're not you and Bulma."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You guys are always on and off and back on again," Krillin pointed out, finally looking over at his friend. "We can't—Maron and I can't go back to that."
"Why not?" Yamcha puzzled. "I mean, what happened? It couldn't have been that bad."
"She moved on . . . fast," Krillin sighed. His fist clenched, pulling up some of the fabric of his pants. "I had my chance, and I blew it," he closed his eyes.
"Had your chance?" Yamcha set his bottle down, leaning forward with attention. "What are you talking about?"
Krillin stared back down at his feet. He remembered the beach at sunset, warm pinks and oranges reflecting over the water that lapped at his feet gently, and the footprints that had disappeared behind him when he had looked back. "She . . ." he started, swallowing to clear his throat, "she would've . . . would have said 'yes.'"
"W-what?" Yamcha stammered. "Would have said . . . she would've . . . you mean you were serious about the whole engagement thing?"
"Jeez, don't act so surprised," Krillin got a little of his sarcasm back through his slump. "It's not that outrageous."
"I just—wow," Yamcha leaned back in his armchair, taking in the information. "How—how do you know that?"
"She told me," Krillin set his empty beer down next to the first. "Right . . . after I, uh—broke up with her."
Yamcha sucked in a breath with a sympathetic look. "Ouch."
Krillin was quiet for another moment before he stood up. "You need another one?"
"Yeah, sure," Yamcha answered to his friend's retreating back, still a little stunned.
Left alone in the room, Yamcha's eyes were also drawn by Krillin's words to the photographs atop his entertainment centre. As he looked from photo to photo, glancing from one group shot of flashing smiles and victory signs to another, he could not help but notice that in each one he seemed to be standing farther and farther away from that familiar shade of cerulean.
The 'pop' of a bottle cap snapped him out of it as Krillin placed another beer in front of him.
"Thanks," he blinked out of his reverie to watch his friend sit down.
"So, I was meaning to ask you," Krillin started with a sidelong look as he sank into the dull-coloured loveseat, "why aren't you with Bulma now? I mean, it's a Friday night and all."
"Well," Yamcha hesitated and peered down into the neck of his bottle, "we normally try to meet up on Fridays, but sometimes she . . . well, she gets busy, you know?"
"Busy?"
"Ever since she was put in charge of Capsule Corporation," Yamcha exhaled slowly, explaining. "Now I don't get to see her all that much. I mean, if she hasn't called yet, I think it means she must be caught up in another project or something. Most of the time, that's what's got her attention."
Krillin puzzled over this new information. "Jeez, and here I thought you had everything—high-paying job, pretty girlfriend, the whole package," he took another drink. "Guess there can be trouble in paradise after all."
"I hardly have everything," the corner of Yamcha's mouth pulled downward. "I mean, on the surface it seems like I've got what I want, but really . . . really it's just that—surface."
"What do you mean?" the two lower moxibustion burn marks on the ex-monk's forehead crinkled upward between his brows. "What exactly is it that you do want?"
"I—" Yamcha's mouth clicked shut as he tried to contemplate his answer thoroughly. His fingers tapped the side of his beer bottle softly as Krillin waited patiently for his answer.
"I guess I want a life as normal as anyone else's, really," Yamcha's gaze latched onto the liquid in his drink. "Sure, I like being strong and powerful and all that," he conceded, though his voice held a tone that lingered, "not that I'm anywhere near the rest of you guys, but, you know, as great as it is to be one of the strongest humans on Earth," his eyes lifted toward his friend, "I still kind of want that old picket fence, you know? A house, a smile waiting for me when I get home . . ." he trailed off wistfully. "I guess I just want . . . well, a quiet, peaceful life—a time when all the super-charged, super-powered challenges'll stop. All this adventure and fighting and excitement is great and all—but it's only temporary. I just want—I just need someone to . . . I don't know, just need someone to be here when I get home, telling me it's all right. That I did a good job and all." He blushed at his confession and took another swig of beer to cover it up.
Krillin continued to stare with his brows crinkled.
"I guess," Yamcha's blush intensified, "I guess it's all kind of stupid and sentimental, but—"
"I don't think it's stupid," Krillin interrupted. "I mean, who doesn't want that—or something like it, at least. I mean, with guys like Goku around, it's hard to feel like . . . like you matter at all. I know I want—it'd be great if . . . if someone were at home, waiting for me."
A meek smile crossed Yamcha's lips at his friend's agreement as he took another sip of his beer.
"So, are you going to ask her?"
Yamcha sputtered a little, unable to swallow. "A-ask her what?" he stammered, stalling.
"Are you going to ask Bulma to marry you?"
Yamcha hesitated, looking back to the line of photographs. "I don't even know if she'd say yes. It's been over ten years—you'd think we were already married by now!" the thought returned to him. He gave a sigh and looked back down at his feet.
"I . . . I'm not sure."
Krillin frowned at his answer. "You shouldn't let it pass you up," his voice was stern.
Yamcha looked up, a little sheepish at being lightly scolded by his friend.
"If it's what you want, you can't just let it slide by," Krillin's mouth pulled further downward as he thought back to his own relationship, and her words echoed through his memories: "I would have said yes, you know. I couldn't refuse someone as sweet as you." He did not think he could ever get the image of her shapely form walking away on that beach as he helplessly called after her. "Sometimes . . . sometimes the risks are worth taking. If I had another chance—well, I'd want to take it. You should ask her what she wants out of life too," he rubbed a hand over his shaved scalp. "You might be surprised that what she wants isn't so far off from what you do."
"You think . . . you really think she might want the same thing?" Yamcha looked to his friend, who nodded. "Ask what she wants first, huh?" he tested the idea aloud before allowing it to sink in.
Krillin polished off the rest of his beer. "Yeah, but probably not now—not this late, and not if she's busy. Not exactly smooth, you know?"
Yamcha smiled to see some of his friend's light-heartedness returning. "What, you don't think I could win her over with my charm any time of night?"
"Charm?" Krillin fired back. "I don't know if you've got any charm—smarm maybe, but definitely no charm."
"Jeez, with friends like you . . ." Yamcha crossed his arms in a mock-huff.
"Heh, yeah. Who needs Vegeta or Frieza when you've got me, right?" Krillin laughed. He stood up, holding onto the edge of the couch a little for support as the blood drained from his head, making him a little dizzy.
"Hey, you aren't thinking of heading out now, are you?" Yamcha asked.
"I was thinking about it, yeah," Krillin stretched a little. "Roshi's probably wondering where his magazines are about this time."
Yamcha waved his hand dismissively. "Let him wait. He should be getting his own magazines, anyway. Besides, you shouldn't be driving back now that you've had a few."
"Actually, I was planning on flying back. I won't be a road hazard that way, and I figure it can't be that hard."
"I don't know," Yamcha made a grimace. "I wouldn't recommend it. I mean, the last time I flew drunk, I never did catch the number on that mountain that jumped out of nowhere."
"Seriously?" Krillin blinked. "You flew into a mountain?"
"Not one of my best nights," the scarred fighter looked down at his thumbs, blushing. "Anyway, I don't see why you have to rush off to Kame House right away. Roshi can wait until morning to get his Easy Mac and booze."
"You know," Krillin tilted his head toward his friend, gaining a bit more confidence, "you're right. I deserve some time to do what I want to do."
"That's the spirit," Yamcha grinned.
"Okay," Krillin sat back down on the couch, "but if I'm going to stay over, we'd better start doing something manly like watch sports or something." He picked up the remote and tossed it to his friend. "I don't think my ego can take any more of this 'talking about our feelings' stuff."
Feynman was scowling over the top of her mostly empty martini glass. A crowd of elegantly dressed co-workers, executives, and associates milled around her with their cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, giving her a small circle of space, as if the intensity of her glare possessed something physical that repelled merrymakers of any sort. She stood alone in her little black dress, nearly biting into the rim of her glass in frustration as her eyes pierced through the short dresses and pressed jackets. She let out a low growl, causing some of the closer corporate guests to back further away.
"Got you another one!" a cheery voice punctured the empty space surrounding her.
She tossed back the remains of her drink and held out her hand for the next without a glance at its source.
"C'mon, you going to mope all night?" Sankey took the empty glass from her and set it on the tray of a passing waiter.
"I'm not moping."
"Okay then," Sankey rolled his eyes as he took a sip of his gin and tonic, "planning an assassination?"
"Har, har."
"Oh, lighten up," he stepped closer to her. "You keep glaring like that, and you'll put a hole in him," he nudged her playfully in the arm.
The nudge managed to slosh the contents of her drink onto the hem of her dress. "Sankey!" she scolded, finally taking her eyes off her target at the far end of the room to focus them on him.
"Sorry!" he pulled out the handkerchief from his breast pocket and immediately knelt down to dab at the spill. The short dress left most of her legs bare, and as he tried to soak up the stain he blushed when he realized just how much of her he could see from his new vantage point.
"What the hell are you doing?" he felt a braceletted smack to the head. "Stop that!" Feynman hissed at him.
"I—I, uh . . . sorry!" he shot up as if at attention, now facing some very penetrating green eyes.
"I can do that myself," Feynman snatched the handkerchief with an indignant snort. "Of all the boneheaded . . ." she muttered, sopping up the small pool of vodka and vermouth on her thigh.
Flushed and fidgety, Sankey covered half his face with his glass as he tipped it up, drinking until his co-worker's cleaning and cursing had stopped. He had barely finished it off before his handkerchief was thrown back in his face, damp and warm from her furious blotting. "I'm really sorry," he offered.
Feynman exhaled quickly, which seemed to ease a little of her tension. "Just . . . just watch where you're elbowing," the tone was exasperated, but not altogether hostile.
"So," Sankey felt her mood had fallen down to more manageable and receptive levels, "are you going to go talk to him or what?"
The second martini lost half its contents at her next tipple. "When would I have the chance? All his attention's still on the boss. I can't compete with that."
Sankey frowned a little. "Hey, don't put yourself down." His eyes fell a little, inadvertently tracing back up her long, exposed legs. "You're, uh, pretty hard to ignore, you know."
If she had heard his compliment or noticed the path of his gaze, she did not respond to it. Her eyes were still slicing through the crowd, past the dinner jackets and curled up-dos to a cleanly pressed suit and a head of dark brown hair with his back to her. They narrowed as she picked out a low laugh, followed by the familiar voice of her employer.
Sankey followed her eyes to the back of the tall man and picked out the toss of some blue curls from his conversation partner. "I'm sure they're just talking business. I mean, it makes sense for the bosses to get to know each other at this thing. They're the ones working out a deal and all."
"She shouldn't hog him so much, though," Feynman insisted. "I mean, she's got her own guy—that baseball star."
"Well, there you go. She's not interested in him. Of course, I don't really get what you see in the guy anyway," Sankey lamely tried to segue. "You don't even really know him."
"Everybody knows Dan Wright," she managed to break her stare from her target to glance at her co-worker in annoyance. "The guy's legacy! He took over his father's company when he was twenty, doubled the profits, and now owns the biggest manufacturing corporation this side of Capsule Corp. itself."
"That's not much to go on. An Internet search could tell you that much—well, it could if we had any signal here," he flicked his phone out of his pocket. "They weren't kidding when they said this place was remote," he sighed at the sight of the empty bars at the top right corner of the screen. "Anyway, what I'm getting at is that you shouldn't let a missed chance to talk to a guy you don't even really know ruin your night."
"He's not just a guy, Sankey," she took another drink. "He's the guy."
"Oh, forgive me," he swirled the remaining liquid in his own glass, "I didn't know he was the guy. That makes a huge difference," he rolled his eyes.
"And I know enough about him to tell that I want to at least try," Feynman brushed off his sarcasm. "I mean, the guy's a genius. He's a whiz at business—"
"—which you know nothing about—"
"—and he has an additional degree in comparative literature—"
"—which you have no interest in—"
"—and he knows Italian, French, Mandarin, Russian, Latin, Swedish, Japanese—"
"—and you can't speak any of those."
"Who cares?" she blew some stray hairs from her face with a pout. "He can. If he wants to woo me in a foreign language, I don't care if I don't understand a word of it as long as he keeps talking."
Sankey hailed a waiter over to pick up his empty glass, but never took his attention off Feynman. "You left out the part about him being rich," he pointed out a little snidely.
"Are you implying something?" her hand clenched tightly over the stem of her martini glass as she handed it to the waiter.
"Nope, never. Never implying anything." He coughed. "I would never think of it."
Feynman crossed her arms. "You'd better not," she huffed.
"I just don't see what you guys would talk about, though," Sankey admitted. "It's not like he's exactly known for being really involved in the technical aspects of his company. He's no scientist."
"Who said I wanted him to be?" Feynman asked, putting a few strands of her dark blond hair back into place. "If I limited myself to scientists, I'd really have slim pickings."
"Hey—"
"I'm going to go talk to him," she resolved quickly. "How do I look?" she tugged at the hem of her dress as she faced her co-worker.
"I—" Sankey was caught up all over again with the place where her dress stopped high on her thighs. Feynman was slim, with thin shoulders and a small chest, but her legs seemed to never end and the dress she had on managed to highlight this perfectly. With her hair piled up on her head, exposing her long neck, she gave off the look of a tall dancer, slender and trim. "You . . . you look great," he managed to get out, his eyes dropping again to look at the way her high heels pushed her calf muscles into an attractive curve.
"Good, now come on," she grabbed his arm, pulling him with her.
"Hey, why do I have to come?" Sankey whined.
"I'll need you to distract the boss so I can have a crack at him."
"Why me?" Sankey tried to avoid bumping into a waiter with a tray of finger foods as he trailed behind Feynman. She wove them around groups of executives and co-workers from Capsule Corporation and Wright Materials alike, hardly taking any notice at Sankey's rushed apologies at each shoulder-to-shoulder collision. As they came closer, Feynman slowed down, staying just within earshot and measuring when she would make her move.
"—doesn't seem to matter what I try, I can't get any signal at all." His voice was deep, and he kept it at a low volume that made Feynman want to draw in closer.
"Funny, I don't seem to have the same problem." The boss's voice—confident, almost smug tonight. They were just a couple people away from the two company presidents and could clearly see them between the other conversationalists. Feynman pulled Sankey closer to her, indicating for him to be quiet with a finger to her lips. Sankey complied, but not without a slight grimace at the sight of his partner's fixation.
Dan Wright stood rather tall, with a wiry frame beneath his dark blue suit. His skin was a slight olive, tanned as if from travelling, and it contrasted nicely with the light colour of his collared shirt. Dark hair was styled neatly atop his head, and he stood up straight, keeping a slight distance from Miss Brief as he spoke to her.
He appeared to be fiddling with his mobile phone for a bit before putting it back into his breast pocket. "And I'm sure this has nothing to do with your upcoming telecommunications presentation?" His heavy brows rose slightly with his knowing tone.
"You catch on quickly, don't you?" Bulma Brief arched an eyebrow of her own.
"It's no accident," he spoke in clipped phrases. "You're trying to impress me by creating the demand for your products right here."
"I won't have to try very hard," Bulma folded her arms smugly. "I seem to have made an impression already."
"Touché, Miss Brief," he took a sip from the wine glass he held. "But I have to say that these tricks won't get you what you're after."
"Oh? And how would you know what I'm after?"
"Why, a merger, of course. Your company is in need of the resources only Wright Materials can provide."
"If you already know," Bulma shifted her weight, leaning on one hip, "why don't we just skip the presentation?"
"And cut straight to the merger?" Dan Wright gave her an appraising look, tracing up the curve of her hip a little. "That's a bit forward, don't you think?"
Feynman nudged Sankey in the ribs. "We'd better move fast," she hissed. "I think he's starting to like her." She manoeuvred them around a portly gentleman enjoying his scotch so they would be in prime position to strike. "You distract Brief and I'll pull Wright out of there," she rested a hand on Sankey's shoulder, prepping.
Sankey felt something tingle down his arm from where her hand was and swallowed to stay calm. He nodded in agreement to her plan.
"—could benefit from combining assets."
"We'll have to see how well your other products hold up, Miss Brief. I'm not about to jump into a decision before you can prove that your products are financially viable."
Bulma laughed. "Mr. Wright, by this time tomorrow, you'll know you can't afford to stay away from Capsule technology."
"Big words," Wright challenged back. "But don't think that I'll be swayed so easily. I've managed to keep my father's company independent for quite some time now—I don't intend to seek help when I don't need it, no matter how nicely packaged it may come."
"Nicely packaged?"
"The retreat, the drinks," he gave her a long look, "the . . . scenery. All simple ploys to try to sway negotiations in your favour."
Sankey snorted slightly. What is this guy, a robot? He's got the personality of a stump—all business and no pleasure. He stole a glance at his co-worker, who seemed just about ready to spring from her spot, before glancing back to the other man. What the heck does she see in him?
"—be ready, all right?" he heard the end of Feynman's sentence.
"What?" he snapped his attention back on her.
"We're moving out," she gripped his shoulder, shoving him out from their hiding place. "Thanks, buddy!" she whispered before he stumbled between the two executives and found himself standing in front of his boss.
Bulma blinked at him in puzzlement. "Sankey?" she asked hesitantly, trying to place the name to the face.
"Uh, hi . . . uh, Miss Brief," he felt the colour rise to his cheeks under his boss' gaze. Buddy, he thought dismayingly, she called me buddy. He could hear Feynman directing Dan Wright off to the side, speaking in the excited tone she usually used during their projects together whenever she knew she was close to a breakthrough. It was full of nervous enthusiasm, the kind that brimmed over the top of her normally snappish demeanour, and Sankey was more than a little sad to hear it slowly retreating away from him.
"Did you need something?" Bulma raised a brow in question at her employee.
"Oh, uh . . . yeah . . . I," Sankey fumbled, trying to keep his mind on his task, "I—I have a question!" he clasped his hands together to stop them from trembling. Buddy . . . "Yeah, um, it's about the presentation . . ."
AN: Not the most exciting of chapters, but necessary nonetheless. Sorry to keep you guys waiting so long–new term, new students, new papers to write and a nerve-wracking waiting period on PhD applications. On the bright side, much of my current work on translations will be directly applicable to this fic–because, above all else, I am an uber-nerd. Unfortunately, the scenes where this is relevant won't come about until much later . . . another reason this one took me so long to write; I've got loads of snippets for chapters down the road, but right now I've lost my cushion, so the next few chapters are coming out straight off the presses.
What does this mean for you? Well, it means slower updates, but it also means that your reviews have a direct effect on how the next few chapters are written! So ask your questions, comment on things you'd like to see, voice your speculations! I try to respond to all signed reviews via PM, even if it's just to say thanks. Sometimes, though, you guys are the best source of inspiration, and your reviews lead me to explore lots of things I wouldn't have otherwise. ^_^
Don't worry, I'll make up for this chapter's lack of Vegeta in the next one. Also, there should be a bit more excitement.