Disclaimer: Economics is the divine and deciding life force. To fail is to die, to succeed is to live.

A/N: Sorry about that, I'm trying to talk myself into going back to my econ homework; it isn't working. Anyways, I'm finally starting to feel better *does a victory dance in honor of Codine the Great, ends up falling into hysterical coughing fit*, and I figured, since I'm finally allowed to be on the computer, I might as well thank my "followers". I'm actually starting to believe that I have some freaky cult following amoung you by the way some of you are reviewing, especially for the last chapter, which I'll refer to after the chapter. So, on with you. Read, review if you wish. Just be sure to enjoy.

Btb, thanks to Panno for the quote; you gave it to me (you know which one ;P) months ago, I finally got around to putting it in. Also, The Sock Puppet of Smelly Death returns!

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Petrified Tears
chapter 76



Teeth clenched, she dug her nails into the arms of her chair, blue eyes flashing dangerously. She'd had quite about enough of all of his games and tricks, and she was about to stomp them into the ground.

Exploding out of her chair, shoving past her secretary, and storming down the halls to the elevator like an angry typhoon, she made her way to her son's office. Employees drew a collective sigh of relief as the reflective, double-reinforced, steel elevator doors closed on the irate face of the true owner of Capsule Corps.

But not even a steel and glass box could contain her anger.

The doors flew open as if at her command, and she raged through the lobby of her son's office, throwing open the double doors and, before even bothering to look at the room beyond, broadcasted to the terrified workers, "Why the hell is my son not in this office!?"

From somewhere beyond her rage she heard a stifled yawn, followed by her son's voice.

"This isn't an office. It's hell. With florescent lighting."

Bulma blinked, suddenly accosted with the vision of her son in his swivel chair, wearing the same old jeans and the same lime green shirt as the day before, his feet up and his sneakers crossed comfortably on the desktop, one hand shoved into a sock, the other holding a stack of papers as he read.

"Trunks?"

"Yeah. 'Wow, I'm here on time', right Mom?" he yawned, flicking his eyes momentarily towards her over the rims of his glasses.

Momentarily befuddled, she glanced at the couch to find Pan on her back, one leg thrown over the back of the couch, the other stretched along the cushions, one arm flung over her eyes, the other back over the arm of the couch that supported her head, mouth open as she silently snored away.

She looked back to her son, about to apologize, before her eye landed on the open window.

"A ha! So you snuck in through the window again! How many times do I have to tell you, if you're late, I'll know? Huh, Trunks? You're worse than your father, you always-"

Trunks calmly interrupted her, propping the papers he read up against one leg and stroking the sock on his hand as if it were a cat and he were an evil doctor plotting to take over the world. "Actually, we never bothered to leave last night. We finished the work you intended to bury us with today, and completed the task of going over Mr. Summer's plans around dawn, archiving the bugs and flaws to memory. Pan wrote down a few formulas that might fix the problems-as she discovered there were many-and from what I can see, they check out. I'm making sure I understand all of this while I let her sleep before I take her home and head off to bed myself."

Bulma's mouth fell open in defeat, her figure slouching forward in shock. She straightened herself, pointing a finger at her son.

"You mean to tell me Pan figured out in one night what all of Capsule Corps below ourselves couldn't in two weeks?"

Trunks shook his head. "Not on her own no; I was here. And it was 6 hours, I'll have you know."

Bulma growled.

"How the hell could you have managed that!?"

"Easy. I'm your son. She's Gohan's daughter."

Bulma relaxed and looked back and forth between the girl literally sprawled on the small couch, and her son-who still sat petting what she'd come to realize was a sock puppet.

"I don't buy it."

He finally looked up at her, his eyes tired and not about to take any shit.

"We haven't left since we got here at 8 yesterday."

"You got here at 8:15 yesterday, I'll have you know."

"Whatever. We haven't left."

"Then why's the window open, Mister?"

"ChiChi brought us food. We forgot to close the window."

"I sincerely doubt," Bulma laughed, enjoying fighting with her son, having never thought to see this spirit within him again, "that ChiChi flew food to you. To your window which is very high off the ground."

"Goten brought her."

Bulma started laughing hysterically.

On the couch, Pan stirred, moving to roll over and ending up falling half off the couch. Landing on her head, she opened her eyes to see a (by the sound of it) well-entertained Bulma, and a very exhausted Trunks.

"What the hell are you laughing at."

Bulma raised her eyebrows at her son, having heard the tone from Vegeta more times than most mortals would ever want to hear it, and not fearing it. "You and Goten had been at quiet war with each other for so long, I doubt either of you would recognize the other's voice."

"Try me."

Bulma glanced at him, then turned to leave.

"I guess I just have to check the security cameras and make sure that you really were here working all night."

Panic spread like pain across his face, the puppet turned to stare at her with wide, pink eraser eyes.

Shit! Shit shit shit shit shit! Forgot about those damn cameras! Shit shit shit shit shit!

His eyes darted towards Pan, who stared at him with eyes wide, betrayed, and that resembled ChiChi right before she blew her lid.

"Oh, and Trunks," Bulma asked as she filed the look between the two for future wonderings, stopping at the door, ready to leave. "What's with the sock?"

With a snarl and a growl he launched himself out of his chair at his mother, sock puppet first. Before he was even perpendicular to the floor of the office, Pan blurred at him, ramming into his side, the two of them crashing into the wall, beyond Bulma's view.

Not about to ask, she closed the doors behind her and walked down the hall, lost deep in thought pondering on the reasons for the look of betrayal and fear that passed between her son and Gohan's daughter.

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A/N: The plot thickens, ah?

Anyways, I want to say something here that I feel is very (un)necessary and needs to be said. Someone left a review for the last chapter mentioning the word "incoherent". This is ok. I took it as constructive critisism, although I totally disagree with the individual. It was said that "people don't talk to themselves in deep metaphors and hidden meanings", when most of the people I (at least) am around, do. If you actually listen to most people when they let their subconscious speak for their mind, they can be really deep, metaphoracle, and almost surreal. There are always those people who don't pick up on this, or who aren't like this, but it's true. Poetry isn't a conscious stream of thought, neither is love, hate, and most human feelings. And if you've been paying attention, you'll notice that almost every chapter in this story has a metaphor, an allusion, or a hidden meaning somewhere within the dialogue or descriptions. But that's ok, that's what's writing's for, and I don't have a problem with the comment left by (as some of you have called him) 'the flamer'. That's not why I'm making this note. The reason I'm doing this is to show I really don't care. Now do me a favor and leave the poor guy alone; he was being honest, no one deserves to be harrassed for their opinion.

Should it have really been necessary for me to ask this of all of you? I think not. Anyhoo, hope you enjoyed the chapter.

-Panabelle ;P
Shrine of the Saiyan Squirt