Soren met with me today to tell me two things.

In the middle of lunch he pulled out a data key and a case of medicine. He said he did more research on my father's heart condition and improved the antidote, and reminded me to start taking it this year. Of course. I'm 30. Goku's age when he died.

There are moments when you're able to forget about the shit that's happening in your life, and you somehow escape the muck of self-absorbed misery that was blocking all exits before. It's when you drag your face up and see something bigger outside of yourself, and know there are still good things out there that can surprise you. Good people who surprise you by how much they love you, and you realize all the more how much you don't deserve it. I felt like I was stepping out of a mineshaft I'd been buried in for a year, and taking a breath of fresh air.

Soren had no reason to keep researching that antidote. He'd already done more than enough to help us outside his official responsibilities as an executive of Capsule Corp. He did this completely selflessly, not knowing that the antidote was never meant for me in the first place. I would've stopped him from wasting his time if I'd known what he was planning. But he wouldn't have told me. He meant it as a gift.

"I want you to live a long, healthy life, Trunks," he told me when I was still speechless and staring at the small box next to my plate. "Not just because the world needs you, but because you deserve it."

He's always had that serene way of stating things like they're obvious, that steadfast peacefulness around him that helped keep everyone together during bad times. I don't know how he did it all those years, especially when the cyborgs came dangerously close to destroying our research base. I know for a fact that without him my mom would not have finished the antidote, and we wouldn't have been able to save Goku. Not just because Soren's a genius, but because he had this amazing ability to stay calm and lead people onward despite any combination of setbacks. He was the only Capsule Corp exec who didn't take the relocation offer that would have housed his family in the safest compound in the country. His wife was a social worker, and they wanted to stay close to the people she cared for in the emergency camps.

If more people were like Soren Kjellberg, the world would rebuild itself faster. And maybe I wouldn't mind giving my life for it.

The second thing he came to tell me was that he's entered the early stages of Alzheimer's.

Whiplash. He'd just pulled me out of my pit of self-pity and cynicism, and the next moment I was back in the dark. A different kind of dark.

I asked him how long he had. He didn't know. A decade would be a stretch. Five, six years, maybe.

I couldn't say anything else for a while. What could I say first? That I couldn't believe it? Because I really couldn't. The man's one of the sharpest people I know, up there with my mother. His mind was one of humanity's critical weapons against the cyborgs, though he still doesn't know just how big of an impact he had, helping us with that antidote. It didn't make sense to me that that genius mind could deteriorate to nothing. That it's already begun that process of decay.

It isn't fair. The reality of life's fundamental unfairness isn't new to me at all, but getting hit with this is more personal than the mass devastation the cyborgs caused and all the shit that humans have been inflicting on each other since. Soren Kjellberg is one of the best human beings I know, and he's the last person who deserves a fate like this.

And because he's one of the best human beings alive, he actually tried to reassure me. He told me that everyone has to die someday, and he's lucky to know ahead of time so he can spend the remaining time with the people he loves. It's more than what most people get.

I know he must still be processing, that he can't have made total peace with this horrible disease that'll destroy bit by bit what is most precious to him, his brilliant mind and his very identity. But he's made enough peace with it to be able to offer consolation to me, someone who's not even related to him, who hasn't seen him in years. Hell, he's spent the past few months working on a fucking antidote he believes will save my life while knowing his own clock is ticking. I don't deserve to know this man.

I almost told him the truth. About everything. It's been festering inside since the only other person who shared these secrets died. I wanted to tell him about the time machine and the real reason Mom enlisted him to make that antidote. That there's another timeline where everything's whole, and that I trained there with the strongest fighters in the universe to save both their world and ours. That I feel so overwhelmingly alone keeping all this in, and he of all people should know the truth behind the monstrous strength in me that killed the cyborgs. That he was part of what made that monstrous strength possible, and he doesn't need to give me anything more.

But telling him would have been selfish. It would have only taken a burden off of me and shifted it to him, and he doesn't need that now.

And of course, there's what Mom and I discussed long ago. The pact we made. It's obvious that it's not the right time yet. The world's still too unstable, and I don't want to imagine what would happen if the information fell into the wrong hands.

We stayed in that restaurant much longer than the one hour Arlen slotted into my calendar. I missed another strategy meeting and several calls from Cleary and the President. I felt like crushing my phone in my hand instead of merely turning it off. Everything around me seemed colorless and insignificant except for the man sitting across the table, serenely telling me that it was okay to grieve or feel angry, but not to go overboard with it because he wasn't grieving or angry.

I asked him where his strength comes from. He told me about his faith.

I listened quietly, not contradicting him. I know that heaven isn't what he thinks. I know that God doesn't act like that, that there isn't a single God but many of them, and they're even more incompetent than your average government bureaucrat. They certainly don't care about humans the way Soren believes.

More truths that I won't tell him. He'll find out eventually, and I think he'll be able to deal with it just like he's dealt with everything life has thrown at him so far.

"Bodily sickness, even degenerative brain disease, is nothing compared to sickness of the soul," he told me. "There is only one true cure for the latter, and I hope you find it."

I told him I know. Sickness of the soul is exactly what I've been trapped in, and of course I want to get out. I wish I could believe what Soren believes. If I hadn't seen the truth firsthand, maybe I would.

The best I could say was that I'm searching. I think he could see through me, and he knows it wasn't just the news of his disease that had me looking so defeated.

Eventually we ended our lunch and parted ways. He hugged me and told me again to take the antidote on time. Again that I deserve a long and healthy life, and he hopes I never lose sight of how meaningful my life is.

The rest of the day meant nothing. It was treading sludge instead of water. I flew home instead of taking the car. I briefly considered flying past it toward the ocean and running the gauntlet again. But I didn't want to disrespect Soren and spit on all that he did for me.

And now I'm sitting here with the old scenarios playing out in my head. The well-worn paths I've stopped myself again and again from completing.

I'm thinking about the time machine. And the Dragonballs. Those were part of the pact, too.