Polkadotpublicity: Lol! I'm doing something right then!

Charismatic Beauty: Yes, Trunks is unwittingly cruel. Here you go!

AnotherDamnMexican19: Well, it's something I'm planning to reveal through the plot. Enjoy!

Queenies: A rainbow always follows a hurricane!

Trunks

Okay. Breathe in… Breathe out…

How is this even happening?

A nostalgic feeling keeps building in my chest, as I keep throwing and catching a baseball over my face (rhyme). Why do I have to over-think this? The smell of the dusty leather of my old glove reminds me of old days. Singleness, man I'll miss that so much. What if I would've never stolen Marron from Goten? Would they be waiting for a baby too?

I just graduated. I'm supposed to have fun and be wild and be free. I mean, I love Marron, like, a lot. I could've imagined her as my wife in some future, when we were mature enough. When her midnight-self would turn into her all-time-self. I hope the wedding takes away that stubborn and childish side of hers, plus this regretful feeling that's eating me away. But now that I think about it, I probably would've given us some space.

Instead of being a rich, young, and probably single CEO, I'll be changing fucking diapers.

Shoot. Catch. Shoot. Catch. I could do this for forever. It's so relaxing. I can put my mind somewhere else rather than my problems. Shoot. Catch. Shoot. Face. Ouch.

Why not patch up with Goten?

He most likely hates you

Yeah, I should better not.

I sit up on the edge of my bed, I think I heard mom yelling? I wasn't sure until Bulla quietly opened my door and motioned me with one of her hands to come. So I did, I tiptoed towards the door and to the hallway, gave a glance to the alarm clock on the nightstand—1 a.m.—, and turned the knob as I slowly closed the door, seeking not to make any noise. Checked.

Mom runs a hand through her helmet blue hair. I know this can't be good. She does that fairly often when she's arguing with dad or when I told her about her coming grandchild.

"Shit…" she swore under her breath. Okay, there has never been a work call that doesn't make her angry, but she never swears, at least not through the call. Perhaps she's tired, and she just wants to go to bed. Wait, why are they calling her from work past midnight?

"Uh-huh. Yes I saw them– but they were perfectly fine last month! No… but– of course, but I'm not– I'M NOT SELLING THE BUSINESS!" she smacked the phone back to it's place. I slowly looked up at Bulla, who was already staring at me with a frantic expression.

"It's all gone." She tells dad, who, like always, seems apathetic about it. "Kids, come down, I know you're there."

I've always wondered how she does that, because it's not the first time we sneak into this kind of private issues. I guess practice makes the master. And of course, we always get some sort of serious talk about the situation.

We watch her pace slowly back and ford on the living room's wooden floor with her bare feet, figuring a way to tell us something I might already know.

"We're broke." She just spits it out like that, flat out, bluntly. She sighs. "E. Corp is making CC part of them. Last month, we were trying to…"

I stopped listening, not only because it was boring or it's a bad habit I've developed when any adult speaks to me, but because I knew enough to punch a wall or a person. These are too many things to assimilate. Does this mean I'm not longer being a CEO? I've been waiting for that job since I was in diapers, or a fetus, or an embryo, and I'm not exaggerating.

"…So, we're basically poor."

"Question," Bulla raises her hand as eager as I bet she does in school. "If you're not selling the business, what are you going to do then?"

"Well," gives a look to dad at the background. "We'll put the house in rent, so we can keep earning money. We'll also have to borrow your savings, we'll cover it up as soon as we can."

"What about the rest of the workers?" Bulla asks. "What about your personal assistant?"

"Wait," I say, before mom could say another word. "So this means we'll have to move out?"

"Yes." She says, slowly, unsure about my, our reaction.

"Oh!" Bulla raises her hand, again. "I'll go to a friend's house."

Well, that fits just fine. I'll go to Grandma Bunny's, which means I'll get my own room and won't have to share a bed or a bathroom–

"You'll take care of your fiancé."

UH?

"Isn't it of bad luck to live with your fiancé before getting married?" I ask, because who in the world would want to lead with a pregnant teenager?

"Isn't it of bad luck to expect a baby before getting married?" Bulla snaps back, earning a glare from me. Nosy traitor.

…

A mess. That's precisely what I am, not only in present tense but also as a whole. I was, am, and most likely, will. It feels useless throwing punches at nothing but mere air. If it weren't because of dad, I would've hung a sandbag in here already.

A massive amount of an invisible weight drops me flatly on the floor.

"What do you think you're doing?" The inert voice of my father rumbles the round walls of the Gravity Machine.

"What are you doing?" I ask back, the force of gravity squeezing my cheeks against the iron ground. He literally has my life pending on the tip of his index and thumb fingers. It only takes one movement, one slow twist to the right to crash me to death. I'd think it wouldn't be such a bad idea, if only the fact of dying like if I were in Jupiter without actually being in Jupiter wasn't rather pathetic and, God, so painful.

"Get up." He commands from behind me. I got this feeling he's strong enough to endure the weight on his back, and remain standing.

"I can't." I babble, my cheeks are pressed too tightly together so it sort of deranges my voice.

I think I felt something hitting my ribs, but I can't be sure. My body went fully and completely numb.

"Ouch." I say, a statement more than an expression.

"Will you mess up your training too?" I thought he thought I'd already done that, and if he doesn't, he sure will now. Training against my father, with over 20 m/s2 on my back might be a good and deserving punishment.

So I try to stand up. My arms push my chest as my elbows start shaking. And after 5 long minutes later, I'm, um, more or less settled. A ton over my shoulders makes me hunch, it's like carrying an elephant on your back.

I sigh, raising and dropping my chest. "Give me everything you've got."

Possibly relevant and useful fact: Gravity= 9.8 m/s2. Physics ;)