Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Iterations ❯ Absence: Part I ( Chapter 9 )

Out of all the ways I've had boring-as-balls board meetings interrupted, what happened this morning definitely tops them all.

I walked into the fancy glass room with the customary double shot of espresso fresh in my system, estimating it'd be effective for an hour at most. I'd probably need another halfway through just to deal with the boredom. It was another perfunctory gathering of men whose real jobs ended as a prerequisite for their current lofty positions. Despite the pointlessness, the agenda was somehow a full page, and some idiot intern had misaligned the margins.

“Mr. Briefs, as Mr. Harun is only on the line for fifteen minutes, may I suggest we discuss item C first for the sake of—”

“Holy shit!”

A dozen balding heads shone under the slanted sunlight as a body plunged straight down past the expansive window on my left. The Doppler effect of the passing scream was like the drive-by blare of an ambulance siren on turbo.

The glass shattered behind me in an expensive insurance shower as I shot down after the guy, cutting from 56 to 40 floors before the dry what the hell chuckle registered in my mind. Must have been something in the coffee. Or maybe I'd been more desperate to get out of that meeting than I'd thought.

30…20…

10?

What the hell? It came out as a slightly pissed off question the second time as I realized I was ridiculously out of shape. I finally caught the guy at the fourth floor with a bunch of maintenance workers and a window cleaner as witnesses. Almost knocked him unconscious with the whiplash, but it made him stop screaming, at least. Shot back up to 56 just as the third identical statement chimed in my head.

The window wasn't the most expensive thing I'd broken with that thoughtless act of heroism. I'd just weathered a publicity storm with the conspiracy theory that Capsule Corp had been behind the mysterious destruction of the moon all those years ago, before I was even born. Supposedly, our top-secret test of planet-grade nukes had failed in a very obvious way, but we had conveniently shifted the blame to the now rather common excuse of alien activity. I still haven't paid Piccolo the visit he deserves for screwing me over with that.

In any case, I knew this was not going to be fun and had to resist the urge to chuck the guy back out the window once I landed. The dozen corporate fatcats were standing there speechless, half of them fumbling with their smartphones and probably about to dial their lawyers to make sure their asses were covered from the fallout.

As much as he deserved it, I was tactful enough not to set the guy down on broken glass and settled for the boardroom table, feeling a bit of petty satisfaction at sweeping the former Prime Minister's briefcase onto the floor to make space. The man didn't seem to notice. They were all still staring at me as if they'd never seen the glowing CSR reports about the company's environmentally conscious CEO who preferred flying over limo transportation.

“Will someone get a doctor?” I asked calmly.

An hour later the news was on every online feed and TV station of every time zone still touched by daylight. Needless to say, the meeting was indefinitely postponed as the press swarmed Headquarters and I locked myself in the executive bathroom for a few minutes to bang my head against the wall. This was Capsule Corp's first jumper, and that meant the company would have to brace itself for a bandwagon-effect wave of suicides in the coming weeks, and I could look forward to a joy ride through the media meat grinder.

I had to hand it to my PR staff, though. Given how worn out they were from "Moongate," they got on it with impressive efficiency. They chose the best of the array of poor options in front of them - spinning it as an act of unparalleled heroism by their CEO and basically ignoring the suicide part.

I've already made it clear what I think about heroes.

My mother called me with some surprisingly helpful advice on how to handle everything internally, though on the press issue she had little to say other than "let them have their screwfest, they'll tire out eventually." This hadn't exactly happened to her when she was in my position, but she knew how to set up the whole counseling system and red flag mechanisms efficiently and with the least effort on my part. I got off the phone feeling more grateful to her than I could remember for a long time. Should have put more thought into that Mother's Day gift.

One of the things she was adamant about was getting to know the "victim" personally and showing genuine concern for his wellbeing. Basically making friends with the root of all my inconveniences for the next month. As viscerally unsympathetic as I was, I agreed that it was a sensible idea.

So here I am at the hospital, alone in the soundproof VIP ward with my suicidal employee while the reporters crowd the waiting area outside. His neck is in a brace, courtesy of my last-second save; otherwise he's in perfect health.

"You should've let me die," is the first thing he says.

Well, at least we're in agreement about something.

"I'm very sorry," I say instead. A compromise of sorts.

He turns his blank dead gaze toward the wall and sighs. It's obvious that he doesn't want me here and that he'll try to kill himself again as soon as he checks out of this hospital.

"Let me just tell you what you came here to hear. It had nothing to do with you. Not my jerkass boss, not the 80 hour workweeks or any of that crap. So rest assured, I got nothing against Capsule Corp."

"Thank you for the reassurance," I reply with the same coolness. "But I'm still concerned for your wellbeing. I'd like to offer my help if at all possible."

He looks at me for a minute, perhaps wondering if I could sound any less sincere. "I don't want your money."

Translation: he wants to see how much I'll offer without appearing too greedy. The prospect of an endless supply of cash can usually turn a soul back from death, in my experience.

I decide to humor him. "I wasn't implying that you would. But if I can help in any way—"

He laughs bitterly, wincing at the strain on his neck. "Trust me, if this was something that you could fix, I would sue your ass off and make you pay double for it, you son of a bitch." A mellow pause. "Take it from a man who's got nothing to lose. Your mother really was a bitch."

I laugh along with him. He's managed the rare feat of turning from a petty annoyance to a point of interest in the span of a few minutes. I can count on one hand the number of people outside my family who've ever disrespected me to my face. Who knew botched suicides could be so refreshing.

"No disagreement there," I say amiably. I know I shouldn't say too much outside the official sympathy approach but I can't help toeing the line. "Trust me on this, though; death isn't all it's cracked up to be. You're better off alive."

He snorts dismissively, interpreting it as a cynic's attempt at encouragement instead of a statement of truth from experience. Of course. Who in their right mind would believe I'd been through death and back? No one on earth remembers that planetwide resurrection except my family and the rest of the fighters.

"I'm better off alive, huh," he says softly. "So I can feel special that the CEO of Capsule Corp's my only visitor?"

There's a significant pause, broken by someone tapping at the small window in the door. A nurse, clearly harangued by the media hounds. I signal for more time. A flashbulb goes off as I lower my hand, some lucky photographer making his pittance.

I turn back to the guy. Things just got a whole lot more interesting.

"Look, I know you actually don't give a shit about any of this. You're obligated to waltz in here and apologize for nothing, try to make sure the company stock recovers from that ten percent dip by next week. At most you're curious about my reasons."

I don't contradict him, but I'm not jackass enough to smile. It's a pity a guy this sharp wants to kill himself.

"So for your troubles, I'll tell you why," he says, words already empty of emotional investment. "My family's dead. If I had gotten on that plane then I would have gone with them. I had a son and a daughter, five and seven. My wife was."

He stops naturally like that's the end of the sentence, and continues as if changing a TV channel.

"There it is," he says with false cheer. "Don't get me wrong, Mr. Briefs, I appreciate your offer. But unless you can bring my family back from the dead."

He stops there again, naturally.

I do smile then. The irony.