Chapter 19 Day 14 Part 2: Friends on the Other Side.

Connor noticed quickly the security was trying to discreetly rush around. It was finally spotting Reynolds headed towards the rear of the building with Schneider, that Connor walked towards the front entrance and out to the path crossroads that led to either the beach, the dock, or the rear exit Reynolds was headed towards.

Connor smiled at the shock, then rage on Reynolds' face after he rounded the corner.

Connor crossed his arms, "So what is this about?"

Reynolds sighed frustrated. "Jason has disqualified Nick and his crew is also being brought in for allowing him to break the rules."

"What?" Connor said, surprised. "Jason was only just switched out. All this would have had to happen under Tom."

"We'll question him if we need to later, right now we have boats coming in."

They arrived at the dock as the men were being dragged from the boats.

Connor's mouth dropped slightly seeing even the camera crew completely immobilized by over a half dozen police-grade zip ties.

"Hey! Why is he bleeding from his mouth?" Connor demanded.

Connor was pushed aside by the mass of black dressed men to the other side of the dock. One final shoulder check pushed him into the side of another boat and he dropped into the water.

The boat slid back into place.

No one gave Connor any mind when he came up for air on the other side of the dock and started shouting how he could have been crushed.

Several staff presented GPS data and video of the morning to Reynolds and a still dripping Connor.

"What are you talking about, Reynolds?! We have to reinstate Nick," Conner pointed at the screen. "GPS says he never went out of bounds!"

"They already had the lighter in the morning. We cleaned that stream with metal detectors both above and below the road before the game started." Reynolds pointed in the air, "THAT lighter did not come from the stream." He raised a second finger, "And it was not washed down into the stream. Even if Nick got those fish in bounds," he lowered his hand, "That is more than enough proof to kick him off."

Connor conceded defeat and switched topics, "Fine. But we have to remove Jason."

"Frank touched him, self-defense. AND," Reynolds slid a folder across the table. Security can respond to security situations as they see fit."

Connor opened the file and saw the security company contract.

"The rules for gunfire are highlighted for your convenience."

Connor read the section.

"Do you know why Connor is a constant name in my family for 200 years?" he asked. Then Connor slapped the folder shut. "Connor Murphy, died to a rubber bullet to the head in The Troubles," he said standing. He slapped the folder into Reynolds chest. "He was eight."

Connor walked out of the room.

Connor was dressed and dry sitting on a short retaining wall, naked feet buried in the sand. He was looking at the waves through the green glass of his souvenir necklace. Suddenly he heard a zipping sound and two soft thuds.

"Hello Yamcha."

"How did you know it was me?"

He turned around, "I heard you land. So, what is it?"

"Mr. Reynolds has been looking for you. It's time to meet the plane with the family visitors.

"Already?" Connor said, surprised. He looked at his watch. "What?! It's supposed to land in 10 minutes!"

"It is?" Yamcha said surprised. "He told me he already sent the camera crews ahead. I'm supposed to carry you over."

Connor sighed and slipped his sandals back on. "Yeah… it takes 40 minutes to drive to the local private airport," he said, glancing at his watch, "Let's go."

Yamcha and Conner landed as the camera crews were filming the passengers disembarking the private jets.

Yamcha had barely put Connor down when Yamcha shouted and flew backwards in a barely noticeable blur.

The crunching of concrete drew everyone else's attention. The crews and passengers saw a man squat down at the end of three grooves ripped into the concrete tarmac like something out of an action movie.

Yamcha lifted his left hand out of the concrete and shook the dust and pebbles off his shoes. In his right arm was a small child alternating between excitedly waving his arms in the air and hugging him around his neck.

"Trunks!"

Connor recognized Bulma instantly as she pushed through the crowd and ran as fast as her sneakers could carry her.

The two met halfway and Yamcha attempted to hand off the child, only for Trunks to latch onto Yamcha's shirt collar, "No! Ankle Yamcha!"

Bulma shouted, digging her feet in and leaning back trying to pull him away.

"No!"

"Trunks, let go!"

"No! I want Ankle Yamcha!"

"Bulma, hold up, you're going to rip my shirt."

"You spoil him too much," Bulma scolded. "Trunks let go!"

"Excuse me," Connor said, intervening. "Hello, Trunks. My name is Connor. I'm a friend of your Daddy."

Trunks looked at him surprised, "You know Papa?" Trunks then glanced between Yamcha and his mother.

"Yes, he is a very good friend to Papa," Yamcha said.

"Trunks, I need you to stand with your family for some quick pictures. But after we get that done, you can sit with Uncle Yamcha on the bus to the hotel. Is that ok?"

"Shouldn't you be asking me that?" Bulma huffed.

"Considering the damage just done to solid concrete, I think getting out of here the fastest would be the most beneficial to your family, Mrs. Brief."

"No, Mrs. Brief my Nana! Not Momma."

Bulma sighed. "Fine…" She finally relinquished Trunks.

"Ok," Yamcha said, getting his arms around him. "Let's get these pictures taken then you can ride with me to the hotel, ok?"

"Okey Dokey," Trunks held his hand up. "High."

Yamcha gave him a high five.

"Low," Trunks held his hand out.

Yamcha went to touch his hand.

"Too slow," Trunks pulled his hand back in a blur.

"Trunks! Where did you learn that?" Bulma asked disapprovingly.

"Ankle Krillin said it's a secret!"

Bulma sighed. "18," she mumbled under her breath. "Ok, Trunks. The faster we get the pictures taken, the faster you can ride with Yamcha."

"Yea!" Trunks lifted his arms in the air, Yamcha just barely ducking out of the way from the accidental uppercut.

"Alright, let's get going," Connor jogged off.

"Ok everyone. If you could follow me towards the stage, we can get this welcome filmed and get you all to the hotel," Connor said as he passed the group.

The security and camera crews guided everyone to the stage draped in a green cloth with the show's logo emblazoned on the backdrop.

Connor walked on stage. He went to speak, but suddenly put his hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh.

Trunks was with his family staring at him with his arms crossed.

"No denying that resting bitch face," he thought, "Oh Mary, poor kid looks like his dad."

Connor took a deep breath to center himself.

"Friends and Family! Welcome to the set of The Last Survivor! My name is Connor O'Malley. You may recognize me as the host of the British Last Survivor. I have been chosen to finish out this season after Bobby Provost untimely exit. So far, this season has been an exhilarating, once in a lifetime experience, and we look forward to sharing it with you all. Now behind me you can two large buses. These will take us to the resort you will be staying at while you are on set. We have a 40-minute drive ahead of us, so let's head out!" Conner raised his hand in the air.

"Yea!" Trunks mimicked him, eliciting giggles from the crowd.

"Up-up," Trunks said, raising both arms to Yamcha as Connor came down to shake hands and mingle while the luggage was transferred to the buses.

Suddenly Connor felt his phone vibrate. He pulled it out and saw a text from Reynolds of all people.

"You've won a partial victory. Jason has decided to rescind Berapi's fire ban."

"What the hell?" Connor mouthed.

Everyone was sitting in one of the dining rooms being treated to an expensive gourmet meal while the producers gave their speeches.

Yamcha was sitting with the Briefs with Trunks in his lap.

"Vegeta did WHAT with the rice?" Bulma said, trying to pick her jaw up off the floor.

Her parents were trying to laugh quietly. "That's our Vegeta…" Dr. Brief said.

"Papa do a funny?" Trunks asked, confused.

"You father did something stupid," Bulma said rubbing her temple.

Trunks was quiet for several moments, obviously thinking about what the adults were talking about.

"Papa do a bad funny?"

Dr. and Mrs. Brief snickered.

Yamcha chuckled, "Yeah. That's a good way to put it. Your Papa did do a bad funny."

"Bulma… Bulma…"

Bulma raised her head. "Vegeta? What is it?"

"It's night time."

"It's barely past 7. We're at dinner and getting explained what we'll be doing the next few days. Can you wait an hour?"

"Fine…"

She felt him leave.

She turned to Yamcha. "Hey Yamcha, has anything else been happening that's been stressing Vegeta out?"

Yamcha became nervous, "Honestly, I shouldn't have told you the rice story. But he's definitely taking your orders about giving a crap about the other contestants seriously. He's breaking the game on every level and he doesn't even know the chao—"

"Ahem," someone cleared their throat behind him.

Yamcha turned around. "Oh… Hey Mr. Reynolds." He looks back at the group, "Guys, this is Mr. Reynolds. The lawyer guy here."

"Yes, I'm the legal consultant running this season on behalf of corporate. Sorry for interrupting this dinner, but I must remind you Yamcha that you have signed a nondisclosure agreement."

Bulma glared at him, "And I would like to know what has been happening to my husband."

"Then I suggest you wait until you sign your own. Those will be distributed to everyone at the end of orientation. And Mrs. Bulma, if your husband contacts you telepathically, please remind him he is legally bound not to use that ability."

"And how is that?" Bulma demanded.

Her rise in volume brought the room to a stop.

"Bulma, Sweetie…"

"No don't 'Bulma, Sweetie' me, Mom," Bulma said standing up. She pointed her finger up at Mr. Reynolds, "What did my husband sign that SPECIFICALLY stated he can't do that, or are you interpreting this restriction out of your ass?!"

"Mrs. Bulma, may we take this out to the hallway," he said tersely.

"Fine," Bulma stormed off.

Mr. Reynolds bristled as he began to follow.

"Do you want some hel—"

"No, Yamcha. I'll handle this." He stormed off after her.

Bulma stopped walking and turned around, "Ok, what the hell are you trying to pull?"

Mr. Reynolds took a calming breath, "One, up until you sign the document, the nondisclosure agreement precludes him talking to you. AND AFTER," he cut her off, "You will be considered a contestant. And he must stay with NORMAL human tolerances, not soldiers and not freaks. And normal people are NOT psychic."

"And what defines normal?!" she shouted. "Does he need to pretend to be stupid because he has the second highest IQ on this planet after me?!"

"We are already prepared to go public the second you scream lawyer, so shut up and listen! A person's mental capacity has nothing to do with PHYSICAL ability. A screaming mess can set the land speed record just like the greatest minds to exist can be paralyzed in a wheelchair with a robot voice. AND," he cuts her off again, "thoughts cannot leave a person's head WITHOUT a physical skill, whether it's talking, writing or telepathy. YOU have no recourse here. The moment your husband gets revealed your company will crash on the stock market leaving you bankrupt and homeless. And your husband cannot help you. He's been very talkative since he got outed for using his powers…"

Bulma stifled a gasp, but Mr. Reynolds saw her eyes widen. He moved closer and looked down at her. She could smell his breath.

"…He is the last of his species and his chance to rule this galaxy is long gone. He is nothing but a crazy man humping wildlife on the edge of the galaxy, his words. Your husband is nothing. And you have nothing. So, unless you believe all the paranoia since the Cell Games will magically go away just because the greatest philanthropist on the planet married the man who destroyed East City, I'd think long and hard about what future you want for that freak of lifeform you shot out from between your legs." He gestured for her to walk in front of him, "Now let's return to the dining room."

Bulma did not move.

Mr. Reynolds pulled out his cell phone, "All it takes is a single tweet Mrs. Bulma." He held up the screen and pushed the app showing a prewritten statement ready to hit send. "Now if you don't want my thumb to slip right this moment, I suggest we return to the room."

Bulma reluctantly walked forward.

"Oh, and Mrs. Bulma."

She stopped.

"I should advise you that only YOU will be signing an NDA. Not your parents. And this place has security cameras with microphones EVERYWHERE, inside and out. So, no matter what your husband said on the evening news, we DO OWN YOU. Shall we continue?"

Bulma's hand instinctively went to her hip before lowering her hand. Her concealed carry was taken away from her before being allowed to board their private plane.

"I would be careful with that attitude Mrs. Bulma," oblivious to why she really lifted her hand, "Someone may misinterpret it as a voiding violation to the contracts."

Bulma walked back in the room and sat down.

"Is everything ok, Sweetie?" Mrs. Brief asked.

Mr. Reynolds put his hands on the back of Yamcha's chair. Yamcha, who was still holding Trunks, looked up behind him. His face soured. It was subtle, but after all these years with Vegeta, he knew a gloating smirk when he saw it.

Trunks started to cry. "Mama," he whined, reaching out.

Bulma stood, picked him up and carried him back to her seat.

"Yamcha, may I call you aside for a moment?"

"Sure, Mr. Reynolds." Yamcha stood and followed him into the hall.

"Alright," he said stopping, "Yamcha I must remind you of your NDA. The Briefs and the child are not to be talked to, and once Bulma signs she becomes an official contestant. So absolutely no contact with her as well in any form, including telepathy."

"Telepathy?"

"Yes, telepathy. And this order starts immediately. So, I recommend you make haste to your room, your food will be brought to you soon." Mr. Reynolds put his hand on his shoulder and pressured him away from the dining room.

Back in the dining room, Trunks was still crying loudly interrupting the dinner.

"Mom, come with me," Bulma sighed, lifting Trunks up as she stood to carry him out.

"I'm coming too," Dr. Brief said, quickly wiping his mustache with a napkin before quickly following his family out of the dining hall.

"Wait, sweetie, can't we just talk here?" Panchy asked as Bulma continued to scurry down the hall.

"No, come on."

Bulma glanced around at an intersection and spotted an exit sign over a double glass door.

Her parents catch up.

"Sweetie? Wha—," Panchy started only to have Trunks shoved into her arms.

Bulma walked up to the door reaching into her purse. She took out a lipstick, then disassembled it into a hidden kit. She quickly disabled the alarm with a magnet and she went outside.

No motion lights kicked on as they exited. The only light was from path lighting along the edges of the patio.

"Bulma what the hell is going on," her father demanded as Bulma began searching the walls of the building, unconsciously pointing with her finger where her eyes were currently.

"Bugs. Bugs everywhere," Bulma answered.

Dr. Brief nodded and began looking around as well. Then he noticed steps down to the beach.

He put a hand around her waist, grabbing her attention. He pointed down to the beach.

Again, no lights triggered as they exited onto the pitch-black beach.

"Bulma?" Panchy asked again. Trunks was still crying in her arms, but no longer at the top of his lungs.

Bulma finally let go of the breath she was holding. "Ok…" she turned around. "Trunks, baby," she said softly, "Why did you start screaming?"

"The bad man hurt me," Trunks cried. "He hurt me. He hurt Papa."

"What do you mean, 'hurt me hurt Papa'?" Bulma asked, worried.

"He hurt me," he continued to whimper. "He hurt me. He hurt—" Suddenly Trunks' eyes widened and he took a sharp breath.

"Hurt Mama! Hurt Mama!" Trunks began screaming at the top of his lungs again. He reached out for her. "Hurt Mama! Hurt Mama! Hurt Mama! Hurt Mama!"

Bulma grabbed him again as he continued to scream.

"I don't know how you got out here…" a voice startled the group.

Everyone jumped and saw Reynolds with armed security. "… But I suggest we go back inside."

One of the security guards suddenly holstered his Taser. "Is the boy having a medical emergency?"

"We don't know! He's not talking," Panchy said, panicking as Trunks continued to scream.

"Then let's get you to the medical unit," the man said, jogging forward.

"The parents and boy will go to the medical ward. Mrs. Bulma needs to return to the presentation and sign paperwork."

"Well unless you have kryptonite in your pocket, no one can get the boy to let go until he's ready," Dr. Brief said.

As Dr. Brief and Reynolds got in an argument, Trunks turned to pure screams. His voice cracking as his vocal cords could not get any closer together without slamming shut.

"What about Yamcha?" Panchy said suddenly. "See if Trunks will let go for him?"

As the argument turned into a three-way, Bulma had a sudden thought.

"Trunks, Trunks," she ran her hand through his hair. "I need you to stop screaming for a moment. This is important.

"Trunks lowered the volume, but didn't stop.

"Trunks, Mama is going to say something with her mouth closed. Can you listen really close for me and tell me what I'm saying?"

Trunks quieted down a little more.

Bulma closed her eyes.

And heard what she desperately did not want to hear.

"Twinkle twinkle little star. How I wonder what you are…" Trunks started to sing softly through his tears.

"Mama, Mama doesn't like Trunks to sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?" he looked at her confused.

"No, no. Of course not," Bulma stuttered. "Mama loves Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Let's sing together this time. With our mouths open."

Reynolds suddenly grabbed and screamed into his radio. "Yamcha! Get your ass down to the beach, right now!"

Trunks started to scream again.

"You free yet?"

"No."

Half-hour later.

"You free yet?"

"No."

Forty-five minutes later.

"You free yet?"

"No."

Twenty minutes later.

"Sugar is going to bed finally. She usually heads into the shelter between 8 and 9. You have to be up in your room by now."

"In the elevator, but—"

"Good."

"Vegeta, listen for a moment."

"Ok, you're not screaming at me. What's wrong?"

"The producers have decided telepathy is illegal and if I so much as blink the wrong way they are going to out you to the press. They have cameras and microphones everywhere."

"Why am I not surprised…"

"You're handling this rather well?"

"The only reason there is not a death count in this contest so far is because you told me not to. And that's just the staff."

The elevator stopped and Bulma exited for her room. "Just hold on four more days. Then we all get a day at the camps then that afternoon we get to compete in a challenge to win a night on a yacht with our partner."

"Wait, you're competing?"

"Yes, we are," she said, siding her card and opening the door. Bulma spotted the extra thick king size bed.

"Damn. That means I can't control what happens…"

"Have you been fixing the game?" she asked, plopping on the bed so hard she bounced.

She smiled.

"I'd answer but I don't want you laughing."

"Ah, got carried away there for a moment…"

"Bulma… you said four days. That's day 18 correct?"

"Yes."

"Has there been any mention of a team swap?"

"No, why?"

"One of my splinter group is hoping to get a majority on the team that way. With the mutiny, we're 5-3 to those morons on the main beach again."

"Yamcha mentioned you made your own camp before the bosses told him not to speak with us and pulled him away."

"I'll save the story until I see you in person."

Bulma could feel Vegeta's emotions swirl. There was a dark hole in the center. One she only got to feel when he psychically lashes out in his nightmares. She felt him realizing her recognition and immediately cut contact.

Bulma sighed and allowed her smile to slowly fade.

"I didn't even get to tell him about Trunks… damn it…" she kicked herself.

She went over to her suitcases the staff placed next to the dressers and removed one of her nightgowns and the bag of bath essentials. She went into the bathroom and undressed. She lit the scented candle and prepared her bath. She slipped in and for the first time really showed her expression. Bubble baths were to relax and unwind after all.

Bulma had always had a good game face when it came to business negotiations but Vegeta had been a good teacher as well. Not directly of course, but just trying to weed him out and see through his walls taught her a lot. Then that surprise Autism diagnosis that came with his IQ test and the spiral of PTSD and others from the social workers assigned to him from the state because of it.

She had not told Vegeta, but the planetary government was now backpedaling over granting him the right to stay now that his mental health was on record. They were going to demand and analyze every second of footage to find a reason to resend it on granting over false pretense. And it sounds like Vegeta's already messed up and dropped the act.

And something was driving him nuts. Something had pried open the lid in his heart and the insanity was leaking out. That mental singularity that was his few minutes in hell. That was all he ever said the first time it happened, and she has never pressed the issue. But now she wished she had, at least at some point.

Vegeta had a moral line Frieza made him cross that had nothing to do with his pride. The hole in his resolve Hell used to tear him open. It had to be something so trite to an Earthling would never think of it, even someone like her. If she had even a half a clue, she'd have four days to make a plan. But she did not even know if it was even the contestants or staff. Not like Dende or Piccolo had a phone… But they are probably bugging the landline phones and Piccolo's name spoke for itself.

No cell phones. No internet. No computers. This place was on lockdown. But there had to be a blind spot. Something undoubtedly human they could not argue against. Something mundane they could never expect…

Bulma sat up straight. Then she got out of the tub. They say the best ideas come to people in the shower, but for her, it was her bubble baths. She threw a quick towel around herself and went dripping into the main room. She walked to the phone.

"Hello, hotel switchboard, I would like to make an outside call… Yes, I know it needs to be approved by the producers… Yes, it to Fortuneteller Baba. She's my family's go-to for horoscopes, predictions, palm readings, all those things… Why yes, we DO believe in that nonsense… Well, you WERE being offensive… Yes, I will wait on hold while you get this approved. The number is 1-800-426-7424. My family's PRIVATE extension to her is 4441… She is in the phone book but I doubt she has a website. She is FAR too exclusive to be so EXPOSED to the plebeians so blatantly… Alright, I'll wait now…"

"Hopefully that sounded bratty enough…" she thought.

About 10 minutes later…

"Yes, I'm still here… Thank you… and she agreed to be recorded, that's wonderful. Can you connect us now?"

"You know how damn early it is over here?! I only do this for you and I'm tripling the charge."

"Three million is fair."

"Three million?!" someone whispered loudly. The staff had forgotten the mute button.

Baba sighed. "I assume this is about Vegeta since you're calling from all the way out there?"

"Yes, Vegeta is having a difficult time according to the staff, but I haven't been able to get any more details."

"So… you want me to tell you what you're going to be told by him in a few days?"

"Yes, please."

"Ok, let me look into the crystal ball… *magic spell mumbling* … Oh my…"

"What?"

"Vegeta seems to have a clinger. A young woman from an abusive background has latched onto him and he is trying to teach her self-confidence to leave her situation. If this continues, she's going to be murdered by her abusers as soon as she leaves the game. This show was meant to break the last of her spirit and tip her over the edge into obeying the order to commit suicide. Her captures already have three people there monitoring her with the poison ready for use."

"What?!"

"The plan was for her to die before leaving the archipelago, but once they realize Vegeta is in the picture there will be a change of plans. And I elect to not to state that plan, because I can see this recording will get passed to her captors in a few hours because the abuser's granddaughter is engaged to the conglomerate's CEO's grandson. And I want to watch them squirm." Baba started to laugh. "And since none are contracted with me, I am under no obligation to take their business!"

Baba became serious again after cackling in glee for over a minute. "Hmm… seems she hasn't been resurrected before. I'm charging an extra two million if you want me to inform the Special Forces of this new plan and to prepare for the possible need to resurrect her, not that I am stating that the need will arise."

Bulma gripped the receiver with both hands. "YES, DO IT! DO IT NOW!" she screamed into it.

"No need to shout, Bulma."

"Baba, is this woman the only reason he's so stressed out?"

"That's a separate question and another 1 million Zeni."

"Just tell me! Money is not an issue!"

"Yes. Team Berapi conspired as a group to torture her the first night and the ringleader, Michael, nearly beat her to death. Vegeta flooded his energy into her to keep her from dying for hours until the staff finally intervened after he threatened to fly off with her, and he is caring for her as she recovers from her injuries caused by that neglect. The girl has also been sexually harassed by both staff and teammates and he is barely containing his rage. Seems Piccolo has also visited the set and privately told him about her previous future of suicide and asked Vegeta to intervene in events, which now is leading directly towards her murder."

"Great job Piccolo… God, that's the worst position to put him in."

"Actually no, don't tell Vegeta it was me, I'd prefer not to die, but she has brought up a buried memory, literally. He's already blanked once and attacked Michael on the second day. It's been personal since they first met. He's just using your orders to care as a mental crutch to avoid thinking about 'IT'. You're going to be dealing with him at his worst your next few weeks there."

"My next few weeks here? Wait… Are they going to force the families to stay as contestants like I thought?!"

"That's a separate question and another one million dollars."

"No. No thank you. I'm pretty sure I don't need your answer to that one."

"Is there anything else?"

"Is he going to be ok until I get to him?"

"That's will be another—"

"I know!"

"Oh Yemma, you would do that…'' she muttered. "Yes. He will have the opportunity to kill several large animals in four days. That will sate his blood lust and calm his nerves. Just be prepared for him to go full feral and wear their skins like a taxidermied sock puppet."

Bulma shivered, "…Thank you for the warning… But if it keeps him calm, I'll just have to, wait four? The meetup is in four days."

"It is going to be pushed back, but you will get the chance to talk with him briefly in three days to tide him over. Is that all, Bulma?"

"Yes…"

"Alright. That will be a total of 7 million Zeni. I expect payment in 24 hours."

"Yes, of course."

"And here's a little freebee for the boy's sake. Stay away from the Greek salad dressing in the red bottle. Last time Trunks had it three years ago, it didn't end well. Literally the worst heartburn possible."

"Oh, umm thank you."

"-User 3 has left the conference call-" Bulma hears over the receiver. She thinks for a moment…

"Just because we are preparing for her death, doesn't mean it can't be stopped." She hung up the phone.

"We… we have to do something," Conner said. "We need to search her visitors."

"We can't," Reynolds said, "The network will never support us against the family of our parent company's owner. Especially on the word of a fortune teller. Special Forces be damned."

Conner stood up. "I died to Cell," he said, pointing at him. "We are dealing with the people who are responsible for me being here right now." He pointed at the speaker. "THEY say she's going to be murdered, we need to stop it."

Reynolds put his face in his hands thinking. He then lowered them, "If the killing of these animals she predicted happens, we'll have the probable cause to go back to the corporate board. It's not like she's going to die in the next four days."

"Deal," he said. He then walked over and pushed the off button. "And recorded." He exited the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Reynolds took a USB from his pocket, "Transfer that recording to this drive." He put the USB on the table in front of the IT technician. He gripped her shoulder deep enough to leave fingertip bruises. "Not copy. TRANSFER." When she hesitated from the pain, he whispered in her ear. "I hear you have a new house. Congratulations. Must have been hell to get that mortgage with all your and your husband's student loans. GBS was all about helping employees' young families. How nice was it for our new owners to grandfather in all the previous loan applications still in processing after ending the underwriting program?"

She picked up the USB, stuck it in, and transferred the files. She then went deep into the programming to erase all traces from the system.

"Done," she said.

"Good girl," he tapped her shoulder, "You have a bright future ahead of you." He took the USB and left.

Once the door closed, she cried.

Once he was back in his room, he pulled up an encryption app and typed an emergency number on his phone. He then got the message "Received" and a string of nine numbers.

He went to his computer and typed the ID number for the throw away video chat account. Ten old men appear on his screen in home robes. It is not the board of GBS. It is the board of their owners, World Networks. The largest conglomerate on Earth. They even conquered the Mouse in a hostile takeover in pure cash, which was how they bagged GBS.

"Can everyone hear me?" Reynolds asked.

"Yes, can you hear me?" came one by one.

"Good, seems we're all here," Alcibiades Souvlaki, the CEO of WorldNet said. "Allow me to introduce Lloyd Reynolds, Esquire. He is originally from the same law firm my nephew is a partner of, and was one of our little investigators on the inside during acquisition and is still one of our eyes and ears."

Reynolds nodded.

"So, you've found yourself in the middle of quite the pickle," Alcibiades said. "I've already informed the others about the situation and provided the previous documents you forwarded." He interwove his fingers and learned forward. "So, what has Vegeta done now that you need to contact us?"

"Actually, it's his wife this time and our new host. But it is equally as serious."

He nodded, "Continue."

"I think the recording speaks for itself. It's less than two minutes long."

"Send it."

Reynolds slipped in the USB in as the old men put on their head phones. Almost instantly, two of the them yelped in terror and threw their headphones off.

"What's wrong?" the others asked almost simultaneously.

"Fortuneteller Baba is involved in this now," one said.

"If you cross that woman, you end up dead," the other said. "No one knows how she does it, but everyone knows it's her. She's the real deal, a true witch."

"How do you know this?" Alcibiades asked.

"I use her," one said, "My in-laws introduced us after I married."

"My parents introduced her to me when I was 14," the other said, "It was a rite of passage. They said our family had been using her for generations. I didn't believe she could be that old back then, but my skepticism ended quickly. She is a real witch. Black magic. Demons. The whole works."

"That's completely ridiculous," Alcibiades says.

"So is an alien prince competing on The Last Survivor, but look where we are," he shot back.

"Forgive the interruption," Reynolds said, "But can we finish listening to the rest of the recording. Whether or not she is real does not affect the fact that people believe she is real and will act on her words."

"Yes, we must continue." Alcibiades puts his headphones back on and makes a show of pressing a button for the camera.

The others follow, although two of them hesitantly.

"The defense forces are getting involved now? This just jumped to DEFCON 10 quick," one said.

"The resurrection must be alien involvement. The method wouldn't be a secret otherwise."

"There was a resurrection after King Piccolo's first attack," a third muses, "With his son making an appearance, it must be their species."

Alcibiades tapped his fingers hard on the desk. "This is not good. I'm disappointed in you Reynolds. From now on. Treat every movement by this family like an illuminati conspiracy to break the rules of this game. They keep outsmarting you."

Reynolds hung his head, "You have my deepest apologies. I will meet this challenge head on."

"Having Sugar Petal on The Last Survivor was my idea, you know," he said. "A wedding present to my future in-laws. This will not please them at all. I'll need to inform them before their observers do first to save face. I wouldn't want them to think I was lying to them, would I?" he asked rhetorically.

Reynolds swallowed, "No, sir."

"Between Fortuneteller Baba, Earth's Special Forces, and a bunch of aliens that can resurrect the dead, I say that girl is the safest on the planet right now…" one of Baba's clients responded.

"We still have over a month to worry about how to handle the Briefs and their alien cohorts," another board member said. "Right now, I'm worried about Conner O'Malley. He's emotionally compromised to say the least."

"Conner has threatened to quit before and has promised to break his NDA the second he does," another said. "He's a direct obstacle to the running of this operation."

"Conner threatened again today," Reynolds said. "Yesterday, he also had a breakdown on set while disciplining a violation of rules, but I considered it dealt with."

"Could you prepare that video for us?" Alcibiades asked.

Reynolds looked at the clock on the wall, 11:02 p.m. "I can have it to you within the hour," he said looking back at the screen.

"We will delay our final decisions until then," Alcibiades said, leaning back. "And Reynolds, try and not disappoint us again."

The screen went black as he was kicked off the call.

After the call ended, Alcibiades stood from his chair and walked across the room. He opened a globe to reveal a bar. He poured himself a whiskey. His butler noticed the whiskey bouncing in the shot as he picked it up and drank it.

"You seem unwell, sir. Do you need anything?"

"The people who killed my family and toppled our dreams are standing in my way again and now my own hand-picked members are buckling at the mention of their name. Why?!" he slammed his empty shot down, "Why do these aliens keep popping up?!" He leaned over, "I did everything for my brother. Changed my name," he held his hands up gesturing at the grand library filled with ancient woodwork, "Gold dug into the highest echelons of power to continue funding his every whim." He slammed the lid down on the globe, "Only to be killed by the same aliens that took everything away from him the first time."

"You've never been one to hesitate of vengeance, sir."

"Because I don't know what they know," he said, running his hands over his bald head. "I first thought they went there because they had no one else to turn to when I saw the trademark on my nephew's doppelganger during the broadcast. But if the grandson's father is one of them, that means that the Briefs involvement predates EVERYTHING. They are the ones who ransacked the lab before blowing it up. Aliens wouldn't have matching hardware to but the Briefs? They probably downloaded every terabyte before they blew it up. What if they retaliate to us exposing this Prince Vegeta by revealing my brother made Cell? What if they reveal World Network was funding the RR even before I even began infiltration to continue his research into robotic immortality?"

He began to pace with his hands pinching either side of his nose. Then he stopped, "Vengeance for Vengeance…" He hurried to his desk and picked up his phone.

"Get me Michael's brother, Isaac," he typed into the app. Then he made a phone call, "Mr. Nahm! It's Alcibiades… My deepest apologies, but I have to inform you of a major hiccup in our wedding preparation about that one flower you ordered… the epiphyte has become permanently attached to a strong host and is flourishing with the extra support… Yes, I do have a plan, but I don't have any gardeners on the ground that specialize in such matters while I'm aware that you have a few… Yes, thank you for their contact information. I will not relent until I make this a perfect wedding."

Bulma laid awake in her bed under the covers.

"Trunks' never had Greek salad…" she thought. "And three years ago, he was a baby… and a red bottle? What are you trying to warn me about? Baba has never done something free in her life…"

"Trunks… Greek… Red… three years ago… and heartburn?" she mouthed under the covers.

"Am I thinking of the wrong—"

Bulma slammed her hands over her mouth, turning a shout into a squeak.

"Doctor Gyro. No. No, no, no, no… Are there more androids we don't know about? Another Red Ribbon Army faction still around? What does this have to do with a stupid TV show?!

Conner sat in bed looking at the ceiling.

"This is it. This is why one life is worth 100,000 jobs.

Human trafficking.

And Hyo-jin has reached her expiration date.

All the disappearances. All from the same company that owns her label. An all-girl record label. They take in small children, lock them up on an 'elite' private island until they start to perform, then two or three girls go missing as they age up. And they're one of the most powerful families in the world. They are untouchable."

He closed his eyes.

"They are already preparing to resurrect the dead. So even if the worse happens…"

He took a framed picture off his night stand. A red-haired woman with two girls and a boy all under 10.

"Vegeta will make sure I get home," he whispered. He kissed the picture, put it back and turned off his lamp.