There are many ways that life becomes eventful for someone—people experience things as much as they can, which often involves social circles and numerous activities deemed time-worthy. Lucky for Beca Mitchell, she's had irreplaceable gifts from her association with the Barden Bellas—gifts of joy, music, friendship, and a sense of direction. The huge turn of events left her very occupied that she can hardly notice that it's been three years since they had won the World Championship for A capella.

Today, she marveled at her small desk with a large stack of demo CDs and paperwork, having been the third youngest music producer at K Records in Washington after the transfer from Residual Heat. It wasn't Los Angeles, but it's a start—a very good start. She even had her own name plate that said 'Reggie Mitchell', which is a bit disappointing, but clearly, the hard work had paid off from her internship, since she's somewhat visible to the industry. Next to it was an old photograph of the Bellas with Jesse, Benji, and Bumper, whose arms were wrapped around Fat Amy when they made a quick trip to Florida after the competition; she giggled to herself, not paying attention to the vinyl records on the wall, not even to the background music. However, it wasn't long enough until her random musings were interrupted by a knock on her glass door.

"Becs, your ten o'clock is here," said the receptionist, holding up a cup of coffee while wearing a pretentious smile without intent—it was so rehearsed that his lips didn't even twitch. 'Occupational hazard,' Beca thought. They weren't particularly well-acquainted, but she was fond of the guy for getting her name right.

"What? I don't have a ten o'clock. I'm not even done listening to these—" Beca gestured at the CDs before taking a sip of her morning pick-me-up. "And that old fart wants me to find the next Foy Vance!"

The ray of light coming from her window had drawn attention to the lines on her forehead when her eyebrows furrowed. She didn't look older, but there were certainly dark circles under her eyes—an evidence for sleepless nights and caffeine-saturated stress.

Being a second too late from stifling a yawn, she grabbed the remote, aiming to pause the music before she could hear the nightmare of someone singing the words, 'if you were an ice cream cone, I'd lick you up and down.'

"I know, but boss-man said she's your ten o'clock and no one's here to fill in except you." He shrugged so innocently, coming up to Beca to fix her hair, tucking a few brown strands behind her ear. He enjoyed it, contemplating on whether he should start a conversation about what Beca should wear for the next business conference in Connecticut.

"Who's she?" said Beca, humming at the warmth of her coffee. She had asked the question out of oblivion, not curiosity; she might as well be half-awake.

"I didn't catch her name but from the way she ranted about Volkswagen, I think she's German." He replied, carelessly going through the tower of disks after seeing an album cover of a shirtless surfer dude with washboard abs.

Beca shook her head out of disbelief. 'Who does that?' she thought.

"Anyway," She swatted his hand when he attempted to steal the Cher poster. "Boss-man also said that she's a very important client, blah blah blah… just…please, Beca? You know what happened to Dax, right? Besides, it will only take ten min—" He stopped as soon as she rolled her eyes.

"Fine! You win! Fine! But this means I'll get Chipotle for lunch, okay? Extra guacamole."

She tried her best not to let out a loud groan. Instead, she shoved the empty mug against his chest playfully and made a grab for the brown folder on her desk with a black pen tucked in between the pages of papers.

"And I need a refill!" She yelled on her way to the lobby, not knowing that she was about to meet the biggest surprise of her life.

Next to the huge leather couch, stood a woman in denim, talking to someone on the phone. "Mam, ich sagte Ihnen…" The conversation slowly died into a whisper when she realized it wasn't the most convenient place to speak her own language. She paced back and forth, occasionally staring at her leather suitcase, thinking it might have been a mistake to arrive early since producers don't seem to care much about humane effort, let alone, punctuality.

'America," she thought.

Beca was just about to say hello when she saw her face—a familiar pair of cold blue eyes—sharpened by a hint of mascara and eyeliner as dark as coal and skin nearly as fair as hers. Then there was that gorgeous head of blonde hair that used to be tied up in a bun and combed to perfection, but now it was falling loosely until her neck and shoulders were covered with pure gold.

All of a sudden, her poetic visions were swallowed by massive alarm; her breath hitched and her heart started beating rapidly. She ran to the pantry, her three-inch heels clicking on the floor, hating herself for not being able to prepare quick-witted and sarcastic comebacks. She had to remind herself that she does not like this woman.

The brunette was a lot of things, but graceful is not one of them; she stumbled and fell under a wooden table where she hit her head in her attempt of getting back up.

"Jesus Christ!" She winced in pain, kneeling and rubbing her scalp.

Deep laughter filled the air quickly.

"I knew I'd see a little mouse down there," Kommissar had bent over, flashing a rather toothy grin. "What's the matter? Are you looking for cheese?" She helped her up, watching Beca's mouth drop open. The blonde had a vice grip. Nonetheless, she was gentle.

"I… was just looking for legs—I mean chocolate eggs! Chocolate eggs! I was… uh… eating chocolate eggs and then I dropped…" Beca straightened out her blouse, looking flushed, distracting herself from looking at the taller woman. Their height difference was obvious, despite the footwear. She didn't understand why, but she had missed the feeling of being intimidated.

Composing herself, she took a deep breath. "Hi, what can I do for you?" She thanked herself for managing to stay polite. It's been three years; she shouldn't be affected by all this.

"You work here, yes? As an assistant? Coffee girl? Or do you mop the floors?" Kommissar raised an eyebrow, then proceeded to take a seat in the nearby table.

"Music producer, actually." Beca followed—she really wanted to slap herself in the face for being weak. Where are her infamous insults when she needed them the most?

"Ah, well, sheer dumb luck can happen—I have an appointment with a Mr. Reggie Mitchell." Kommissar furthered, growing a little impatient but it was more obvious that she was delighted over seeing her old 'friend'. She was always reserved and calm—didn't seem to know how to panic or worry.

"I suppose you can show me where he is, as I don't like to be kept waiting."

Beca's eyes had widened. "That's me… I…I'm Reggie—I mean, my name is Rebecca, but my boss calls me Reggie."

"You? What an unfortunate casualty, Rebecca Mitchell." Kommissar looked perplexed, but she kept smiling; she always loved making people nervous.

"Beca—please call me Beca." The smaller woman said. She had the opportunity to stare at the blonde's face; she noticed that Kommissar hasn't aged a bit—that she looked almost the same, that she always had the right amount of assertiveness, if not aggression.

"I think 'Little Mouse' still suits you—always so tiny and squeaky," Kommissar took her by the hand, practically leading the way back to the studio.

"Well…you still smell like cinnamon!" Beca let herself get dragged.

"Do you always make a habit of smelling your clients?" Kommissar chuckled in between a smirk, allowing Beca to wallow in her own pool of embarrassment. "Come now—we are to discuss the overhaul of the company, going from independent to mainstream."

"Wait, what?" Beca squirmed away from the firm grasp and locked the door. "Whoah, slow down—what do you mean overhaul?"

"You know…how do Americans say it these days? Revamp? Redecorate?" Kommissar leaned forward, eyeing the control room.

"No, I know what overhaul means! What are you talking about? I thought you were just going to submit a demo!" Beca had never felt so confused in her entire life.

"A demo? You are a very silly elf—my family owns the company. We felt the need to save the record label from its known incompetence of producing useless noise so we bought it." Kommissar explained, almost pompously.

"Please tell me K Records doesn't mean Kommissar Records because I would actually kill myself right now." Beca slapped her forehead in denial. How could she not know?

"While your permanent absence might work in my favor, I am not that self-absorbed. Although, you should really do your research—I mean no respectable employee is unaware of the company that he or she is working for, especially the name of the company itself."

"This is not happening. Nope, this is a lie. You're just messing with me with… that… that sexually frustrating German accent! Besides, where is the public announcement? Had it been legit, we would've had a board meeting or something."

"You should really take a pill that makes you chill—something that has a calming or a relaxing effect to take away all this inappropriate hysteria. I simply thought of personally delivering the news to you before we make the announcement tomorrow. After all, we do have unfinished business between us."

"Not gonna happen—I quit." Beca waived her hands franctically. Of course, she didn't mean what she said, but she wasn't in the mood to play games and she didn't really want to work with someone who would intentionally piss her off for the sole purpose of their entertainment.

"You can't—you've got a year left on your contract. I checked with the lawyers." Kommissar countered, bringing out a piece of paper, with too much business gibberish written on it.

"What do you want? You can't seriously hold a grudge for losing in the competition. It's been three years for Pete's sake!"

"Who said anything about holding a grudge?"

"Is this some kind of sick game?

"You really don't remember, do you?"

"Remember what?"

She remembered the rush of adrenaline. She remembered how her heart almost leaped out of her chest. How the crowds roared for their victory as she held the trophy and made her way to the left wing. Everyone was cheering and hugging each other—her best friend Chloe was in tears, while Stacie, Jessica, Lilly, and Emily were chanting a series of 'Oh my god' and 'We won' that was soon diluted by the marching footsteps of Das Sound Machine.

Beca's head turned, practically squeezing the round column of the trophy as her stomach dropped at the sight of Pieter's cold stare. She composed herself, cleared her throat, and walked towards them.

Kommissar, who just emptied her second bottle of water, looked indifferent.

"Congratulations…Bellas." She said.

"Beginner's luck. Don't be so giddy." added Pieter. He proceeded to the backstage with the rest of the group after a few minutes of heavy bantering with Fat Amy, leaving Kommissar alone with Beca.

"Told ya, we'd kick your ass," Beca waved her prize, braggingly.

Kommissar strode forward, grabbing Beca by the collar and kissed her on the mouth, which would be slightly arduous if the smaller woman wasn't wearing a pair of heels. Meanwhile, Beca presumed she was going to get punched in the face, but the way her lips were enveloped with warmth and tenderness proved her wrong, almost to a shock, that her shoulders were raised stiffly.

"This isn't over yet," The blonde pulled back, whispering. She contemplated on whether or not she should wipe off the smeared red lipstick on Beca's face with a small towel, but did anyway, very carefully.

"You taste like mint chocolate chip ice cream!" Beca yelled furiously, trying hard not to blush. Normally, a person would stand back and leave her alone, but she was greeted with a half-hearted laughter.

"Only on special occasions, but you should really work on your insults, Thumbelina." Kommissar patted the top of her head and walked away, as if nothing happened.