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Chapter Text

East City Times

"Mysterious Aliens Arrive on Earth: Saiyan Warriors Land in East City!"

East City, Age 762, March 14—In an unprecedented event that has left the world both fascinated and anxious, a group of alien warriors known as Saiyans have landed on Earth. The extraterrestrial visitors arrived in East City yesterday, causing widespread speculation and concern among the global population.

The Saiyan warriors, led by a figure identified as Prince Vegeta, made a dramatic entrance, landing in what appeared to be space pods. Initial interactions with Earth's authorities have been tense, but no hostilities have been reported. The Saiyans claim to be on a mission to assess Earth and its inhabitants, though details remain sparse.

Dr. Briefs, the renowned scientist from Capsule Corporation, has been appointed as the primary liaison between the Saiyans and Earth's governments. He assured the public in a brief statement: "We are taking every precaution to ensure the safety of our citizens and to understand the intentions of our visitors."

Public reaction has been mixed. Some view the Saiyan arrival as an opportunity for technological exchange, while others fear potential threats from the powerful warriors.

The global community watches with bated breath as diplomatic efforts continue. Will this encounter lead to peaceful coexistence, or is it the prelude to a more troubling saga? Only time will tell.

Galactic Innovations Journal

"Historic Earth-Saiyan Alliance Formed: A New Era of Interplanetary Cooperation"

Central City, Age 764, January 3—In a groundbreaking development, Earth and the Saiyan Empire have officially formed an alliance, marking the beginning of an era of interplanetary cooperation and advancement. The treaty, known as the Saiyan Accord, was signed today by Earth's representatives and Prince Vegeta of the Saiyan Empire in a ceremony attended by dignitaries and scientists from both worlds.

The Saiyan Accord outlines several key areas of collaboration, including mutual defense, technological and cultural exchange, and economic partnership. Dr. Briefs of Capsule Corporation, a pivotal figure in the negotiations, expressed optimism about the alliance's potential: "This partnership represents a significant leap forward for both our civilizations. Together, we can achieve technological advancements and ensure mutual prosperity and security."

Highlights of the Saiyan Accord include:

• A mutual defense pact to protect against external threats.
• Exchange of advanced technologies.
• Economic collaboration to boost both economies and foster prosperity.
• Joint space exploration initiatives to further scientific knowledge and expand our understanding of the universe.

Prince Vegeta, representing the Saiyan Empire, declined to comment.

Public reaction to the alliance has been largely positive, with many seeing it as a chance to propel Earth into a new age of technological and cultural development. However, some remain cautious, remembering the initial tensions and the Saiyans' formidable power and unknown past.

As Earth and the Saiyan Empire embark on this historic partnership, the world watches with hopeful anticipation, eager to see the fruits of this extraordinary collaboration.

Saiyago Dictionary

Ama'ber- betrothed in high Saiyago

Aufceiger- The Ascended One. The same term is used for the Saiyan warrior as well as the most powerful piece in the game of 

Beherr'atio- Saiyan boardgame similar to Chess

Bellum- battle

.....Eh'nos Bellum- an honor battle, litteraly a battle to restore honor if one has been wronged

.....Macht'captio Bellum- a battle to take power by force

Deschwilisblüter- one who is weak blooded

Ebein- wild boar

Einheitz- unity

Finde- "It is finished." in High Saiyago

Frauter - brother

Min'Kriler - equivalent to a Chess pawn, the weakest piece in the Saiyan game Beherr'atio

Späher- equivalent to the Knight in Chess

Sipen- Clan/House

.....Mag'Sipen- Great House

.....Min'Sipen- Lesser House

Wäress du ein Saiyajin, würt ein Mag'Sipen Ihnen gehernet - A compliment. If you were a Saiyan, you would be the one in charge of your Great House.

Der Mosd süber'flust- An expression, the mouth overflows

Du ist eine Schirnido unt ein Furchido - You are a beauty and a terror.

Chapter Text

"The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting." - Sun Tsu

It was midday and the sun hung high in the sky over Capsule Corporation’s expansive front lawn. The air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers. A series of elegant marquees stood tall, their white fabric billowing slightly in the breeze, sheltering clusters of people who mingled and chatted, their laughter blending with the distant hum of city life.

Today, Capsule Corp would be hosting the grand unveiling of the Earth-Saiyan Technology Exchange Program, a groundbreaking initiative aimed at fostering interplanetary collaboration and innovation. The event promised to be a landmark in diplomatic relations, showcasing cutting-edge technologies developed through the joint efforts of Earth’s brightest minds and the formidable intellects of the Saiyan Empire.

At least, that was how the press painted it. The way Bulma saw it, Earth had just agreed to share its technology with the Saiyans in order to avoid being obliterated, or worse, subjugated, and the Saiyans, in turn, had graciously offered Earth use of technology they had stolen in a similar manner from other civilizations. Bulma wasn’t naive. She knew the only reason the Saiyans hadn’t conquered Earth outright was because Earth’s leaders had surrendered at the mere sight of the powerful empire. 

But… to be fair to the Earth’s government, it was a bit hard to tell a living, breathing bomb what they were and were not allowed to do. And therein lay the rub. Because for all his talk of alliance and partnership , the Sayians knew damn well that Earth had no choice but to agree to the their terms. The mouse did not dictate what the cat might do.

Bulma stood near the entrance. Despite her mood, she was a picture of poise and charm. She wore a vibrant blue dress which complemented her striking hair. It hugged her figure with a sophistication that matched her role. She stood with her parents and several key Capsule Corp employees, welcoming the distinguished guests arriving for the event. Dr. Brief, in his lab coat, was the embodiment of scientific brilliance, while Mrs. Brief, with her golden curls and bright smile, exuded warmth and hospitality.

“Welcome, Minister Han,” Bulma said, her smile bright as she shook hands with a tall man in a tailored suit. Minister Han, the Secretary of Technological Development for Earth, was a key figure in the government. His face lit up as he spoke with Bulma, his admiration for her evident. It was all Bulma could do to keep from sneering.

“Miss Briefs, it’s always a pleasure. The advancements you’re showcasing today are truly remarkable. We’re fortunate to have such innovation here on Earth.”

Bulma laughed softly. “Thank you, Minister. We’re excited about the collaboration with the Saiyan Empire. It’s a groundbreaking opportunity for both our worlds.” Thanks to cowards like you, we had no other choice , she thought bitterly.

Next in line was General Tao, a high-ranking military official. His uniform was adorned with medals reflecting his service, each one a testament to Earth’s military might that had crumbled so easily before the Saiyan Empire.

“General Tao, thank you for coming,” Bulma greeted him, extending her hand. Her smile was practiced, perfect, betraying none of her inner disdain.

“Miss Briefs,” General Tao acknowledged, shaking her hand with a firm grip. “I’m eager to see the defensive technologies you’ve developed. They could be a game-changer for Earth’s security.”

“We believe they will be, General,” Bulma replied, her eyes sparkling with feigned confidence. Inside, she seethed at the irony. “And we appreciate your support.” As if your support makes any difference , she thought. 

Bulma knew she wasn’t being fair. No one could stand up to the Sayians. No one stood a chance against them. They all knew it from the moment they had arrived. But none of them had even tried . Not a single one.

As the guests continued to arrive, Bulma’s charm and grace were unwavering. She moved seamlessly from one conversation to another, her demeanor professional yet warm. Her smile never faltered, even as her thoughts simmered with resentment and frustration.

Towards the end of the hour, a man in a sharp, tailored suit approached her. His dark hair was slicked back with meticulous precision. He exuded an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance. His eyes roved over the crowd with the detached interest of someone who believed himself above it all. He reminded Bulma of someone else she had the misfortune of knowing.

“Miss Briefs, a pleasure to see you again,” he said smoothly, his voice oozing charm. “Robert Blake, Deputy Director of Interplanetary Affairs.”

“Mr. Blake,” Bulma greeted him with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. They had met before? It was likely, given his position, but he hadn’t left any lasting impressions. She couldn’t remember him at all. Bulma extended her hand, which he took a moment too long to release. “I hope you’re enjoying the event so far.”

“I am,” Blake replied, his gaze lingering on her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. “You’ve outdone yourself. Perhaps we could discuss it further over dinner tomorrow?”

Bulma’s smile remained, but a polite firmness entered her tone. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Blake, but I’m afraid I have other commitments.”

Blake’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a flash of irritation in his eyes. “Another time, then,” he said, inclining his head slightly, the gesture more perfunctory than sincere.

As if I’d ever choose to dine with you , Bulma thought, maintaining her outward composure. She nodded politely as he moved on, feeling a wave of relief as he disappeared into the crowd.

Bulma’s gaze shifted, scanning the throngs of people. Her smile faded slightly as she realized she couldn’t spot Yamcha anywhere. He had promised to be here, and his absence soured her mood further. She forced herself to stay focused, her professional mask firmly in place, but a sliver of disappointment lingered.

Why was he never there when she needed him?

Mrs. Briefs squealed quietly, pulling Bulma from her thoughts. “Oh look , dear,” Mrs. Briefs nudged Bulma subtly. “That handsome prince is here!”

Bulma followed her mother’s gaze and saw Prince Vegeta making his entrance, flanked by his elite guards. Vegeta’s presence was unmistakable. He wore dark blue under armor and gloves— gloves , really? The white of his armor gleamed in the sunlight, and Bulma had to suppress an eye roll. Did he ever wear anything else? At least today he had a cape and an insignia marking his royal status. That was new. His tail was wrapped tightly around his waist. It was the most alien thing about him, and Bulma found herself staring, fascinated, despite herself.

Beside him, Nappa, the burly warrior, moved with a heavy, deliberate stride. His bald head and fierce eyes made him an imposing figure. Radditz, with his wild mane of hair, surveyed the crowd with a mix of curiosity and disdain. Kakkarot seemed out of place with his cheerful demeanor, his tail the only one flicking with excitement. Bulma had met them all before and actually didn’t mind Kakkarot. 

If all Saiyans were like him, perhaps she wouldn’t hate them so much.

As the alien men approached, the crowd parted slightly, whispers of awe and curiosity following them. Vegeta’s gaze was sharp, taking in the scene with a mix of boredom and irritation. His eyes met Bulma’s for a brief moment, but he looked away just as quickly.

Bulma straightened her posture, ready to greet the Saiyan prince with the same professionalism she had shown all afternoon. “Welcome, Prince Vegeta,” she said, her voice steady despite her contempt for him. “We’re… honored to have you and your delegation here.” That was a lie. Bulma wanted to kick him. It was his fault Earth had an overlord–er, alliance, now.

Vegeta inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Miss Briefs,” he replied curtly. He looked her up and down, slowly, but said nothing. It would probably kill him to say something diplomatic in return, wouldn’t it? 

“Hiya, Bulma!” Kakkarot said, raising an arm in greeting. The other Saiyans remained silent.

Bulma’s smile softened. “Hello, Kakkarot. Enjoying your stay?”

Kakkarot grinned widely. “Yeah, it’s great! The food is amazing, and people are so friendly. I still can’t get used to all the different kinds of food you have here.”

Vegeta did not seem to share Kakkarot’s enthusiasm in the least. He glanced that their offerings and turned his nose up. But Bulma caught the other two staring down the tables of hors d’oeuvres. She chuckled. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it. Feel free to have as much as you want.”

Vegeta’s eyes flicked towards them. “We will take our places now,” he said, his tone brooking no argument.

Bulma nodded. “Of course. Follow me.” You absolute princess, she thought to herself.

The group moved towards the main stage, where a large podium had been set up. Guests were taking their seats at round tables arranged around the platform. Bulma took her place at the front, near her parents, while the Saiyans settled at a table a few rows back. She glanced around one last time for Yamcha, but there was still no sign of him.

Dr. Briefs stepped up to the podium, adjusting the microphone. The crowd quieted, all eyes on him. “Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests from Earth and the Saiyan Empire,” he began, his voice clear and steady. “Today marks a significant milestone in interplanetary relations. The Earth-Saiyan Technology Exchange Program represents not only a collaboration of our greatest minds but also a further commitment to peace and mutual advancement.”

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle over the audience. “This partnership will pave the way for groundbreaking innovations in energy, defense, and medical technology, benefiting both our worlds. Together, we can achieve feats that were once thought impossible.”

Bulma tried to listen intently. Her father didn’t hold the same disdain and suspicions of the partnership that she did, and it was evident in his voice. His words resonated with the pride and hope he felt for this project. 

She tried to pay attention. The media was here, and she always did her best to keep her true feelings to herself. It wouldn’t help anyone to have gossip rags speculating about her commitment to the Earth-Sayian alliance. How else would she keep an eye on it if she wasn’t involved? It would be a bad look, getting caught paying attention to everything except the speakers.

But right now her mind kept wandering. Where the hell was Yamcha? He had promised to be here, to support her. She scanned the crowd again, her eyes flitting from table to table. Still no sign of him. The disappointment gnawed at her.

Bulma tried to focus, but her gaze drifted again, this time catching Vegeta’s. He was seated a few tables behind her, and his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat. Why was he staring at her? His expression was inscrutable, a mix of curiosity and something else she couldn’t quite place. After what felt like hours, they both looked away.

Bulma’s cheeks flushed slightly. Weirdo. What was his deal ?

After Dr. Briefs finished his speech, the applause echoed across the lawn, and he smiled warmly, acknowledging the crowd. As the applause subsided, his voice carried a note of anticipation.

“Thank you, everyone, for your kind attention. Now, it is my great pleasure to introduce the key dignitaries and special guests who have made this groundbreaking collaboration possible.” 

Dr. Briefs continued, “From Earth, we have Minister Han, Secretary of Technological Development, whose unwavering support has been instrumental in this initiative.” Minister Han stood and gave a small wave, the crowd responding with polite applause.

“Next, we have General Tao, a distinguished military leader whose expertise in defense technologies has guided us towards innovations that will enhance our global security.” General Tao rose, nodding firmly as the audience clapped.

Dr. Briefs’ smile widened as he turned to the Saiyan delegation. “And from the Saiyan Empire, we are honored to welcome Prince Vegeta, who has played a pivotal role in this collaboration. His dedication to this project and his visionary leadership have been crucial in bringing our worlds together.” Vegeta inclined his head slightly, his expression remaining stoic amidst the applause. Bulma had to suppress a snort. His dedication? 

Bulma had to suppress a snort. His dedication? Yes, maybe to the conquest and domination of other planets. She couldn't help but feel a pang of bitterness. Here was a man who had likely destroyed civilizations with a flick of his wrist, now being praised for his 'visionary leadership.' It was almost laughable. The alliance might be necessary, but that didn't mean she had to like it. 

Dr. Briefs then looked to Bulma, his smile warm and proud. “And now, I’d like to invite my daughter, Bulma Briefs, to speak. She has been working closely with the Saiyan military to integrate our technologies and ensure the success of this collaboration.”

Bulma stepped forward, her heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nerves. She didn’t have to like it, but she did have to play her part. Bulma took a deep breath and began, her voice steady and clear. “Well, I’m not sure I can top my dad’s speech, but I’ll try,” Bulma quipped. The crowd gently chuckled, save for the Prince of Sayians, of course. “Thank you all so much for being here today. The Earth-Saiyan Technology Exchange Program represents a unique opportunity for both our worlds. We have been working tirelessly to combine our strengths, and the results have been nothing short of groundbreaking.”

She glanced at the crowd, noting their attentive expressions. “Our partnership with the Saiyan military has allowed us to push the boundaries of what we thought was possible. Together, we have developed new…”

Bulma caught Vegeta’s gaze as she spoke, his dark eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her momentarily falter. She quickly regained her composure, continuing her speech with renewed determination. “But this collaboration is not just about technology. It is about- it’s about building a future where our worlds can coexist peacefully, learning from one another and growing stronger together, as equals .” Bulma looked back at Vegeta when she spoke the last few words, aiming them directly at him. As he had been doing since they sat down, he simply continued to stare at her, gaze unwavering. 

She concluded her speech, the crowd erupting in applause. Bulma stepped back and Dr. Briefs returned to the podium, his smile beaming. “Thank you, Bulma. And now, I’d like to invite Prince Vegeta to say a few words.”

Vegeta stepped forward, his posture rigid and commanding. He looked out over the crowd, his expression unreadable. “This collaboration between the Saiyan Empire and Earth is a testament to our combined strength,” he began, his voice deep and unwavering. “The Saiyan people value power and innovation, and this partnership has shown that Earth has… much to offer in these areas.” Bulma’s eyebrows rose. That had to be the first time she had ever heard the prince say anything even remotely flattering about Earth. She wondered if Kakkarot had anything to do with this speech.

Vegeta paused, his eyes scanning the audience. “We will continue to work together to achieve greatness, and I expect nothing less than excellence from both sides.” He glared at the audience, as if threatening them. His speech was short and to the point, his words resonating with the Saiyans in the audience, who responded with enthusiastic cheers. The Earth delegates, however, seemed uncertain, their applause was hesitant until Bulma began clapping, prompting the rest of the crowd to join in more robustly. Internally, she was rolling her eyes. Who’s idea had it been to give Vegeta a mic? 

With the speeches concluded, the event moved into the photo session. Bulma and Dr. Briefs stood alongside Vegeta and his guards, the photographers capturing the moment for posterity. Vegeta stood with his arms crossed, his expression as stoic as ever, while Kakkarot smiled broadly, waving at the cameras. Nappa and Radditz maintained their stern demeanors, adding to the imposing presence of the Saiyan delegation.

“Prince Vegeta, could you squeeze in just a little bit closer?” the photographer called out, his voice carrying over the din of the crowd.

Vegeta barely suppressed a snarl. With an air of reluctance, he stepped closer, positioning himself so close to Bulma that she could feel the heat from his body. She swallowed, glanced away.

The photographer snapped several shots, adjusting his angle for the perfect composition. “A smile, Prince Vegeta?” he suggested, the request hanging in the air like a fragile hope.

Bulma took pity on the photographer and glanced sideways at the Prince. “Would it kill you to smile?” she said pointedly, her voice barely above a whisper so the other guests wouldn’t hear.

Vegeta didn’t respond, his expression remaining stony. He stood there with his arms crossed, projecting an aura of defiance and disinterest.

Bulma kept her smile plastered on her face, though her patience was wearing thin. “You know,” she muttered under her breath, “since it’s your fault we have to be here in the first place, you could at least cooperate.”

Vegeta’s eyes flicked to her, a spark of irritation evident. His voice was low and cold. “I see your mate is absent from yet another event.”

“Yamcha is not my–” She snapped her mouth shut. There was no point with him. How dare he bring up her personal life? Bulma’s heart clenched at his words, but she swallowed her retort and smiled again. The cameras continued to click, capturing her forced smile and rigid posture. As soon as the photographer signaled that he had enough shots, Bulma and Vegeta moved away from each other with seemingly synchronized precision. 

Bulma could feel the heat of anger rising in her cheeks, mingling with the disappointment that had been gnawing at her all afternoon. Yamcha’s absence stung more now, magnified by Vegeta’s cutting remark. She needed a moment to herself, away from the pomp and circumstance and Sayians .

She tried to hurry across the lawn, but her heels sank into the soft grass, making each step a small battle. With a huff of frustration, she bent down and slipped off her heels. The cool grass was a welcome relief against her sore feet. She abandoned the shoes on the lawn, uncaring if they were lost to the crowds. She had given her speech. She had played her part, and now she was done for a while. Barefoot, she continued to walk. 

Bulma moved towards her mother’s private gardens, her bare feet padding softly on the manicured lawn. She entered the shaded pathway flanked by tall hedges and the world outside the garden faded into a background murmur. The garden was a tranquil oasis, filled with an array of colorful flowers and the gentle hum of bees.     

Bulma heard laughter and a familiar voice up ahead. Was… was that Yamcha? She followed the path, picking up her pace. The voice spoke again. It was definitely Yamcha. What was he doing in here? When had he arrived? Why hadn’t he told her? Bulma’s eyes scanned the greenery for a glimpse of her boyfriend.

As she rounded a corner, the sound of Yamcha’s voice became clearer. She slowed her steps, a frown creasing her brow. Another voice joined his—a female voice, light and flirtatious. Bulma stopped, hidden behind a tall hedge, and listened.

“Come on, it’s just a number,” Yamcha was saying, his tone coaxing. “We can grab a coffee sometime, no big deal.”

Bulma’s breath caught in her throat. 

Chapter Text

She peered through a gap in the foliage and saw Yamcha standing close to a young woman she didn’t recognize. The woman laughed, a tinkling sound that grated on Bulma’s nerves.

“I don’t know,” the woman replied, her voice playful but hesitant. “What if your girlfriend finds out?”

Yamcha chuckled, a sound Bulma had once found charming but now made her stomach turn. “She doesn’t have to know. It’s just a number. Here, give me your phone.”

Bulma’s heart pounded in her chest, anger and disbelief warring within her. She leaned closer, her hands gripping the hedge as she listened.

The woman hesitated for a moment longer before finally relenting. “Alright, but just coffee, okay?”

“Just coffee,” Yamcha agreed.

Bulma’s vision blurred with unshed tears, her earlier frustration now a boiling anger. She turned away from the scene.

Vegeta stood behind her, arms crossed over his chest. Bulma nearly jumped. Where had he come from?

Vegeta scowled at her. “He shames you, in your own home,” he said, his voice low and filled with contempt. “ Pathetic .” 

Bulma’s anger flared, and she quickly wiped away the threatening tears. “What are you doing here?” Bulma hissed, keeping her voice low so as not to alert Yamcha. “Go away. This has nothing to do with you.”

Vegeta’s eyes narrowed. “It has everything to do with me. You are the face of this alliance, and he makes a mockery of it, and of you. If you can’t even command respect from your own mate, how do you expect to command it from anyone else?”

Bulma had given up on correcting Vegeta everytime he called Yamcha her “mate” after about the hundredth time. The idea of a boyfriend was, apparently, too foreign a concept for the Sayian prince. 

Vegeta’s gaze didn’t waver. “Do you intend to let this continue?”

Bulma took a deep breath, her mind racing. “Just stay out of it,” she muttered at last. 

Vegeta nodded and didn’t move, but his eyes followed her as she marched further into the garden.

“Yamcha,” she called out, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her.

Yamcha turned, surprise flickering across his face before he quickly masked it with a smile. “Bulma, hey! I was just—”

“Save it,” she cut him off, her voice cold. “I heard everything.”

The young woman beside Yamcha looked between them, wide-eyed and clearly uncomfortable. “I think I should go,” she murmured, taking a step back.

“Yes, I think that’s a very good idea,” Bulma replied sharply, her eyes never leaving Yamcha’s.

As the woman hurried away, Yamcha reached out, trying to placate her. “Bulma, it’s not what it looks like. She’s just a friend.”

“Just a friend?” Bulma repeated, her voice rising. “Is that why you were giving her your number and making plans behind my back?”

Yamcha’s eyes darted around, clearly nervous about the confrontation. “Bulma, please, let’s talk about this somewhere else. We can work this out.”

“No,” she said firmly, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “We’ll talk about it here. I’m done with your excuses, Yamcha. I’m done with you .”

Hours later, after the technology demonstrations, exhibits, and the press conference, Bulma found herself at the bar set up in the garden pavilion. The sun had just set, and the twinkling fairy lights cast a warm glow over the lush greenery. High-top tables adorned with small floral arrangements were scattered about, and a live band played softly in the background, providing a gentle, melodic soundtrack to the evening.

People mixed and mingled around her, their conversations blending into a pleasant hum. Bulma had just finished speaking to a reporter from the West City Gazette, answering questions about the Earth-Saiyan collaboration and its future potential. Maybe it was how busy she was keeping herself, but she didn’t feel as upset about Yamcha as she thought she would.

She leaned against the sleek wooden bar, watching the bartenders expertly mix drinks. “I’ll have a Jack and Coke, please,” she said, then reconsidered. “Make it a double.”

As she waited for her drink, Bulma glanced across the lawn. The Saiyans were deep in conversation with several military officials. She recognized Colonel Mason, a stern but fair man who had played a crucial role in integrating Saiyan technology with Earth’s defense systems. Now that the Saiyans were on Earth, Bulma worked closely with him, coordinating the development and deployment of their joint projects. He had initially been skeptical of the Earth-Saiyan alliance, sharing many of Bulma's own reservations.

Colonel Mason had been one of the few military leaders who voiced his concerns openly. He questioned the wisdom of trusting an alien race with such a volatile history and worried about the potential for betrayal. His pragmatism and caution had resonated with Bulma, who had her own doubts about the Saiyan presence on Earth.

The Prince caught her eye. Vegeta nodded once, a brief, almost imperceptible gesture, before returning to his conversation. Bulma wasn’t sure what to make of the prince’s gesture, but she nodded back. Colonel Mason said something, and Vegeta smirked and said something in reply. Was the Prince of All Sayians, as he liked to refer to himself, being cordial? If breaking up with Yamcha was all it took, she should have done it ages ago.

The bartender handed Bulma her drink. She took a sip, feeling the warmth of the alcohol spread through her. She smiled and waved as another reporter approached her, ready to field more questions about the day’s events. 

“Miss Briefs, could I get a quote about today’s technology exchange?” the reporter asked, her notepad at the ready.

“Of course,” Bulma replied, her smile genuine. Despite how she felt about the Sayian Empire, today had been a success for her father, and a success for their company, and Yamcha was, still, the furthest thing from her mind.

At least, he was until about one in the morning, when Bulma tried to turn in for the night. She tossed and turned, her thoughts racing. She lay awake in bed, staring up at her ceiling, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

Thirteen years. Thirteen years she had devoted to Yamcha, and for what? Sure, they had their ups and downs. In the early days, there was an undeniable spark. Yamcha had been charming and brave, a perfect match for her adventurous spirit. But his wandering eye had always been a problem. She remembered the countless times she had caught him flirting with other women, his apologies always just convincing enough to make her take him back. She was always the one to break up with him, but she was also always the one to mend things. Why did she keep doing that? A small voice in the back of her mind told her it was because she’d be thirty-two soon. She didn’t want to start over at her age.

Not that she was old .

Bulma scowled, thinking about the girl she had seen Yamcha with. There was no way she had been a day over twenty. Bulma cursed and threw her pillow across the room, getting angrier by the minute.

How could he? How could he? Yamcha knew how stressful the Earth-Saiyan alliance was. She’d hardly had any time for herself these past few months, let alone for a relationship. But she had tried. And how did Yamcha repay her? By flirting with the first pretty thing that caught his eye. Of all the selfish, idiotic things to do. What if someone else had caught him? How humiliating would it have been to have the whole world find out about his infidelity, on the very night of one of, if not the most important event Bulma had hosted? And not just for her, but her parents and their entire company, too.

She imagined the headlines: "Earth’s Leading Scientist’s Boyfriend Caught in Scandal at Diplomatic Event." The mere thought made her stomach churn. The event was supposed to symbolize unity and progress. Instead, it could have been overshadowed by personal disgrace.

Bulma sat up, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. She thought about all the sacrifices she had made, the late nights in the lab, the endless meetings, the constant pressure to ensure the alliance’s success. Yamcha had been a constant source of worry, a nagging doubt in the back of her mind, even as she tried to focus on more significant matters.

She couldn’t believe she had let herself be dragged into this cycle for so long. She had been blind, thinking she could balance her demanding career and a tumultuous relationship. But tonight had opened her eyes. She deserved better than a man who couldn’t stay faithful, who didn’t appreciate her efforts or the weight of her responsibilities.

Too bad she didn’t have time for a new relationship. She wouldn’t know how to pick a good man, anyway, even if she did. Her experience had been Yamcha and, well, Yamcha, and that success rate was a big fat zero percent.

Bulma got up, threw a hoodie over her light pajamas, and padded downstairs. She hated it when she started to feel sorry for herself. It was a disgusting, useless habit.

Speaking of disgusting and useless habits… Bulma rummaged in the kitchen drawers until she found what she’d been looking for—her cigarette pack. She opened it—there were a few left. Good. She went outside and walked around the compound. Everything had already been cleaned up from the event, the grounds pristine and eerily quiet under the moonlight.

The night was calm, the air cool and crisp. She wandered past the meticulously trimmed hedges and the flower beds that her mother tended to with such care. The lights from the main building cast a soft glow over the path, creating long, stretching shadows. Off in the distance were the labs, and her father’s latest project—a large chamber with the ability to exponentially increase gravity. It had been an instant hit with the Saiyans. The Prince had especially taken to it. It wasn’t uncommon to see him on the compound, either coming from or going to the gravity chamber, his intense training sessions becoming a regular occurrence these days.

As she strolled, she passed a security guard who called out a friendly hello. She waved back, offering a half-hearted smile. The guard nodded, continuing his patrol. Bulma walked a while longer, just looking around and trying to clear her mind. The night was silent save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. She thought about the project she was working on for the military and considered heading for her lab to distract herself with work. 

But first–a smoke.

Bulma put a cigarette between her lips and patted herself down, looking for a lighter, but she had forgotten to grab one. She sighed, frustration bubbling up again. It was just her luck tonight.

"What are you doing?" came a deep voice from the shadows.

Bulma jumped, startled. The cigarette fell from her mouth. Vegeta stood a few feet ahead of her. He had ditched the cape and gloves and chest plate, but still wore the blue under armor. His dark eyes glinted in the dim light. He must have been heading home from the gravity chamber. But… Couldn’t he fly? What was he doing walking around the compound? 

Bulma snatched the fallen cigarette from the ground and held it up for him to see. “I wanted to smoke. But I don’t have a light.”

“A light?” he asked.

“A lighter. For my cigarette,” she said.

Vegeta looked at the cigarette for a moment before gently flicking his wrist in her direction. Suddenly, the end of her cigarette was lit. Bulma’s eyes widened. She had read in their files that Saiyans were capable of generating and controlling massive amounts of energy with their bodies, but she’d never seen it in person.

“Impressive,” she said. “Thanks for not hitting me in the face.” She took a long drag, closed her eyes.

Vegeta watched her, his expression unreadable. "You shouldn’t smoke," he said after a moment. "It’s a disgusting habit."

Bulma exhaled a plume of smoke, her eyes narrowing. No one was around to hear them. She felt free to speak her mind. "So is forcing weaker planets to bow to your will, your Highness , yet here we are."

Vegeta said nothing to that.

“Thanks for the light, I guess.” she said. Bulma walked away. She thought she felt him watching her, but by the time she turned around to check, he was gone.

Chapter Text

"The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so that he cannot fathom our real intent." - Sun Tsu

A week after the unveiling of the Earth-Saiyan Technology Exchange Program, Bulma found herself at Fort Einheitz, a bustling military base on the outskirts of Central City. Einheitz was a newer facility, built after the arrival of the Saiyans. It apparently meant “Unity” in the Saiyan tongue. The base was a sprawling complex of concrete buildings and reinforced bunkers, surrounded by high fences and guarded by soldiers, human and Saiyan alike, in crisp uniforms. The air was filled with the hum of machinery and the rhythmic clang of metal against metal, punctuated by the occasional barked order from a commanding officer.

Bulma walked briskly through the base, her heels clicking on the tarmac. She wore her usual lab coat over a smart fitted magenta suit, and her long blue hair was pulled back in a matching magenta claw. She carried two coffees in one hand, and a box of donuts in the other. Her eyes scanned the area. There were rows of tanks and sleek, highly advanced (thanks to the Saiyans) aircrafts lined up in neat formations. Around her, soldiers moved with purpose and practiced efficiency.

The training grounds were on the way to her destination. She spotted Kakarot sparring with a group of human soldiers. His movements were fluid and precise, and at times he moved so quickly Bulma could hardly see him. Despite his strength, he was careful not to overpower his opponents, instead focusing on technique and form.

“Kakarot!” she called out, catching his attention.

The friendly Sayian had been transferred to this unit just a few days ago, and they quickly began chatting during their breaks. 

Kakarot stopped mid-spar and turned to her with a wide grin, his tail swaying and twitching like an amused cat. Every other Saiyan she met kept their tails close to their body, but not Kakarot. She wondered why.

“Hey, Bulma!” Kakarot greeted her, jogging over. “On your way to work?”

Bulma nodded and handed him one of the cups of coffee. She made sure to hand him the right cup; he liked extra- extra vanilla syrup in his lattes. Bulma had a sweet tooth herself, but the way he took his coffee would have given a human diabetes within the year.

“I thought you could use a break,” she said, holding out the box of donuts. “I brought these for you.”

Kakarot’s eyes lit up. “You’re the best, Bulma!” he said, taking a donut and biting into it with gusto. "Hey, the guys were telling me there’s a martial arts tournament coming up.” He ate two more donuts. “I was thinking of joining."

Bulma raised an eyebrow. "A what? Kakarot, you’re way too strong. You’d crush everyone without even trying."

Kakarot grinned, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I know, but I think it’ll be alright as long as I don’t use my powers! It’s been great sparring with everyone here, I bet it could be fun to see what humans can do in a real fight! Besides, martial arts is something both humans and Saiyans have in common. It could be a good way to connect with people here on Earth. The more we understand each other, the better, right?"

Bulma's heart softened at his words. She often found herself wishing that the other Saiyans were more like Kakarot. His openness and willingness to embrace Earth and its people made the whole alliance feel like it might actually benefit her people. If only Vegeta and the others could see things the way Kakarot did.

“I think that’s a great idea,” she said honestly.

“You do?” Kakarot said, beaming. “That’s great! Hey, do you think you could help me find the right thing to wear? I want to fit in with the humans!”

Bulma looked from his gravity-defying hair to his tail and chuckled. He was going to stick out like a sore thumb, but there was no doubt in Bulma’s mind that he’d fit right in. “Sure thing,” she said.

Bulma left Kakarot to his training and made her way to the hangar. Her assistant, Virginia Shen, was already waiting for her outside the training grounds, ready to accompany her. Virginia was shorter than Bulma, with cropped no-nonsense jet black hair and the meanest resting bitch face Bulma had ever seen. She was quick, professional, and trustworthy. She was perfect.

“What have we got today, Ginny?” Bulma asked as they walked.

Virginia read from her tablet, almost scurrying to keep up with the taller woman. “The Prince will be by for an inspection at 0900 hours.”

Bulma groaned, realizing she had forgotten. Like clockwork, Prince Vegeta arrived at the beginning of each month just to hear himself talk and get on her nerves. She hadn’t seen the Prince since last week's event, and apparently, her streak of good luck had finally run out.

They arrived at a large hangar at the heart of Fort Einheitz, where Bulma’s latest joint effort with the Saiyan and Earth military was underway. The hangar was a high-security facility, with multiple checkpoints manned by both human and Saiyan guards. At the first checkpoint, they scanned her ID badge and took her fingerprints. At the second, a retinal scan confirmed her identity. Finally, at the third, a full-body scan ensured she wasn’t carrying any unauthorized devices. Bulma understood the necessity; her competitors would do anything to get their hands on the blueprints.

Inside, the hangar buzzed with activity. Engineers and technicians swarmed over a massive piece of equipment that dominated the center of the space: the Integrated Energy Shield Generator, or IESG. It was a marvel of engineering, a joint creation that combined Earth’s technological ingenuity with Saiyan advancements. 

The IESG was designed to generate a powerful energy shield capable of repelling both physical and energy-based attacks. The shield was adaptive, capable of adjusting its frequency and strength based on the nature of the attack. It could, at full capacity, protect a radius of up to 1 kilometer. 

Earth had nukes, and that could potentially pose a threat to the Sayians, but really, what were nukes compared to Sayians? Earth had about 13,000 nuclear warheads. But the Sayian elite alone numbered in the ten thousands, and that wasn’t even considering the other high ranks of their, in Bulma’s humble opinion, completely barbaric caste system. 

It took fifteen minutes for a nuclear missile to deploy. An elite Saiyan’s attack, however, was nearly instantaneous and just as devastating. This made the IESG a game-changer for Earth's military defenses. Once it was fully operational, Earth would be much more evenly matched with the Saiyans and other powerful aliens—at least when it came to their own devastating, bomb-like power. Their naturally superior physical strength was a whole other story…

Bulma examined a control panel. Where was that damn communication interface? The small, cylindrical device was designed to synchronize with the signal boosters, amplifying and relaying the connection between the IESG and the wearable bands. The boosters were essential for extending the protective radius and ensuring seamless connectivity for soldiers in the field. She finally found it and connected it to her diagnostic tool, preparing to run a series of tests to, hopefully, finally identify the synchronization issue.

She scrutinized the latest data on her tablet, struggling to pinpoint the issue. Frowning, she rubbed at her eyes and put on her glasses. Bulma wasn't accustomed to encountering issues she couldn’t solve, and the mounting tension in her shoulders was only rivaled by her growing irritation at that fact.

She turned to her workbench, cluttered with various tools, circuit boards, and the sleek signal boosters. Among the scattered equipment were several wearable bands, each designed to interface with the boosters and provide individual soldiers with a personal protective shield. The boosters were sleek, metallic devices, about the size of a soda can, with an array of tiny antennas protruding from the top. Designed to be lightweight and portable, these boosters were to be worn by soldiers as part of their gear. The idea was simple yet ingenious. Obviously, since it was her brian child. Each booster would communicate with the IESG, creating a network of interconnected nodes that extended the range of the protective shield. The wristbands, equipped with sensors and communication modules, ensured that individual soldiers remained directly protected by the IESG, allowing the shield to adapt to their movements. This combination of boosters and bands provided near fail-proof coverage, and a robust and flexible defense system.

If she could ever get the fucking thing to work.

Bulma picked up one of the signal boosters, examining its connections and the small, intricate components inside. She connected it to the communication interface and began running diagnostics. As data streamed onto her tablet, she watched for any irregularities in the signal transmission.

"This should work," she muttered, her frustration palpable. She adjusted a few settings, ensuring the signal boosters were properly aligned with the wearable bands. Each booster was programmed to relay the signal from the IESG, but the synchronization needed to be flawless for the system to function effectively in the field.

"These boosters are supposed to relay the signal from the IESG to the bands worn by soldiers," she explained to Virginia, who was busy taking notes. "They amplify the connection, ensuring that even if a soldier is several kilometers away, they still have the protection of the shield."

Virginia nodded, her fingers flying over the tablet. "So what's the problem, then?"

Bulma sighed. "The boosters aren't maintaining a stable connection with the bands, especially when the soldiers are in motion. The signal fluctuates, and we lose the protective coverage."

Bulma picked up a diagnostic tool and connected it to the booster, watching as a series of numbers and graphs appeared on her tablet. "See here," she pointed to a particular spike in the data. "Every time there's a sudden movement, the signal drops. It's like the boosters can't keep up with the changing positions."

Virginia frowned. "Could it be an issue with the antennas?"

Bulma shook her head. "I've already checked the antennas. They're functioning perfectly. The problem seems to be in the communication interface itself. It's not processing the data fast enough to maintain a stable connection."

As she spoke, her frustration grew. If she had been at home, in her own labs, Bulma would have already thrown something across the room by now. But here, where everyone and anyone was watching, Bulma had to keep her cool. It wouldn’t do to let the soldiers or her colleagues see her losing her temper. She needed to project confidence and control, especially in front of the Saiyans, who thrived on pride and strength.

The IESG was too important, not just for Earth’s defense but for proving that humanity could hold its own on the interplanetary front. She needed to prove to the Sayians that humans didn’t need them half as much as they thought. Failure wasn’t an option.

Suddenly, Vegeta was standing before her. Bulma, startled by his sudden appearance, instinctively threw a wrench at his head. Someone ought to put a bell on him , she thought. Vegeta sidestepped the flying tool with ease, and behind him, a Saiyan engineer caught it without even turning around, preventing it from hitting one of his human colleagues.

Bulma made a mental note to learn that Saiyan's name and add it to her "Saiyans not on my shit list" list. It had just gained a second entry.

Vegeta scowled at her, which was to say, he had the exact same look on his face that he always did. 

The prince asked her if she had checked the synchronization module and Bulma felt a sudden urge to crawl under a rock.The synchronization module. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that? It was right in the freaking name . Bulma worked her jaw, determined not to give him the satisfaction of losing her cool.

"Have you checked the synchronization module, Miss Briefs?" Vegeta repeated again, his tone dripping with condescension.

Bulma took a deep breath and forced a smile. "I was just about to, your Highness," she replied. She turned back to her work, determined to ignore the Sayian prince. She wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of seeing her rattled. Not now, not ever. It was too bad her face was bright red from humiliation.

Vegeta, with no preamble whatsoever, continued to speak. "Why have you moved on so quickly from Yamcha to Kakarot?" he asked, his tone sharp. 

Bulma froze, completely gobsmacked. The sudden change in topic nearly made her disoriented. She turned to face him, eyes wide with disbelief. " Excuse me?" she demanded.

“I suppose it’s an upgrade, for you at least. Still, I was surprised.” Vegeta said, his scowl deepening. "Kakarot told me you had been… bringing him food these past few days," he said, his voice edged with… was that annoyance?

Bulma felt a flush of embarrassment and anger creeping up her neck. She took a deep breath, willing herself to stay calm. "Um, yeah? It’s called being friends?” (And hearing hilarious stories about the prince didn’t hurt, either. Kakarot liked to talk when you fed him. But Bulma wasn’t about to give that tactical information up.) “Sometimes friends do nice things for each other, Prince Vegeta," she replied in a deadpan tone. 

She lowered her voice, so at least the humans in the room could not hear her. "Although I doubt you Sayians know what a friend is."

Vegeta's eyes narrowed, his irritation evident. "So, Kakarot is just a... friend?" he asked, his tone skeptical.

Bulma’s confusion and annoyance mounted. "Yes! Of course he is!" she said, still bewildered by where this line of questioning was coming from.

"Good," Vegeta replied. That couldn’t be a touch of relief in his voice. Could it? Why?

“I’m sorry, do you have a point, your Highness?” Bulma asked, her patience wearing thin.

Vegeta seemed to get a bit more stiff, a bit awkward. "Are you busy at thirteen hundred hours?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant.

Bulma was free at that time, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to tell him that. "What? Do you… need to talk about something?" she asked, eyeing him warily.

Vegeta got even more awkward, his usual confidence faltering. "It's a delicate matter," he muttered, avoiding her gaze.

Bulma pulled a face. "I’m going to need more than that, your Highness."

Vegeta stiffened even more, if that was possible. "It concerns the alliance and is of the utmost importance," he insisted.

Bulma tried to press him further, but he clammed up. His face turned an uncharacteristic shade of red. Well. If he wouldn’t tell her, then she wasn’t free. 

"I’m busy at thirteen hundred hours, sorry," she said dismissively, shrugging and turning back to her work.

Vegeta lost his cool, his frustration boiling over. "You're impossible !" he shouted, his voice echoing through the hangar. With a final glare, he stormed out, leaving Bulma and everyone else in the hangar stunned by the outburst.

A moment later, she laughed. Bulma couldn’t deny it, it was fun getting under that jerk’s skin.

Chapter Text

Though she’d never admit it, Bulma was finished for the day by lunchtime thanks to Vegeta’s help. She walked out of the military base, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the tarmac. She slipped on her shades and headed towards her sleek hover car, a custom Capsule Corp model. Unlocking the car with a touch, she slid into the driver’s seat. Bulma checked her phone, which she always had to leave in the car due to the base's strict security protocols. She had seven missed calls from Yamcha already today. Two more than yesterday. 

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. Whatever he wanted could wait. Forever. As far as she was concerned, they were done for good this time. Bulma started the car and lifted off, the hum of the engine soothing her annoyance a bit. The landscape of the military base quickly gave way to rolling hills and then to the outskirts of West City.

She wasn’t sure what to do about Yamcha. He probably thought that she’d calm down and take him back soon. And why wouldn’t he? She always had in the past. But this time was different. They would have to talk again soon, but for now, she just wanted to have a relaxing meal before the second half of her grueling day started. 

Bulma parked her car and stepped out into the lively streets of West City. The air was filled with the scents of street food and the sounds of people going about their day. She walked along the sidewalk, her heels clicking against the pavement. 

She passed a bookshop, its window display featuring several books about current events. Titles like "Understanding the Saiyans" and "Intergalactic Diplomacy: A New Era" caught her eye. Next to the bookshop was a newsstand, its front page plastered with headlines about the Saiyans and their impact on Earth. "Saiyan Technology Revolutionizes Earth" and "Saiyan Cultural Differences Spark Debate" were just a few of the bold declarations. A gossip rag sitting on a bottom shelf read: "Is the Saiyan Prince the Galaxy's Most Eligible Bachelor?" The subtitle speculated about Saiyan dating customs and whether the “enigmatic and undeniably sexy Prince Vegeta” was single. A nearby culinary magazine read: “A Way to a Sayian’s Heart?”

Bulma snorted and shook her head slightly. She couldn’t help but wonder if the situation on Planet Vegeta was similar, but it was hard to imagine a bunch of burly Saiyans fawning over humans. The thought made her chuckle.

Further down the street, she passed an electronics store. The display in the window featured the latest gadgets and devices, many of which incorporated the new technology shared through the Saiyan alliance. A large holographic screen broadcast a news report. Despite her reservations at the alliance, Bulma felt a surge of pride. She had helped make that technology possible.

Bulma’s stomach growled, pulling her from her thoughts. She spotted a small café with outdoor seating and decided it would be the perfect place to take a break. She entered the café, the bell above the door chiming softly. She ordered lunch and, making sure her sunglasses were still firmly in place, sat outside in a spot far away from the other patrons.

A group of high school girls walked by, their voices a mix of excited chatter and giggles. They clustered around a magazine, each trying to get a better look at whatever had captured their attention.

"Prince Vegeta is so dreamy ," one of them swooned.

Bulma was thankful she had already swallowed her sip of tea, or she would have been choking right now. That was not what she had been expecting to hear.

"No way," another girl countered, shaking her head vigorously. "Commander Kakarot is the best."

Bulma snorted involuntarily, catching herself too late. The girls glanced in her direction, and she quickly turned the snort into a fake cough, hoping to avoid any further attention. The teens glared for a moment, then returned to their discussion.

The waitress arrived with Bulma’s food, placing a sandwich and salad in front of her. She murmured a thank you and took a bite, still half-listening to the girls’ conversation as they continued down the street.

" Commander Kakarot, really?" one of the girls asked, her tone incredulous.

"Yes, he's a commander !" the other girl defended passionately.

The first girl huffed. "None of that matters. A prince trumps a commander any day."

"No way! Without Sir Kakarot, they never would have been able to stop Fr—" The rest of the sentence was lost to the noise of the street.

Bulma finally allowed herself to laugh. She’d kill to see the look on Vegeta’s face when he heard a bunch of Earth girls gushing over him.

As she ate, she scrolled through her emails on her phone, skimming through updates and meeting requests. The din of the city faded into the background as she focused on her screen.

Suddenly a movement caught her eye, and she glanced up. No one had been there a moment ago, but now two Saiyan men she didn’t recognize stood guard at the door to the Brazilian steakhouse across the street. The restaurant was usually only open for dinner, so their presence was unusual.

It must be someone important, perhaps Vegeta or another high-ranking Saiyan. She recalled Vegeta’s disdain for the food at last week’s event. Maybe it wasn’t Vegeta, then. That snob probably had all his meals imported straight from the homeworld.

She shrugged and went back to her meal.

“Excuse me, Miss Briefs,” a gruff voice interrupted.

Bulma yelped and dropped her fork, sending salad flying everywhere. She glanced across the street; the two Saiyans were still there. She looked up at the towering figure of Nappa and straightened up, trying to save face.

“Yes?” she replied, her voice a bit more steady than she felt.

“Prince Vegeta requests your presence,” Nappa said, his tone authoritative.

Bulma just looked at him for a moment. That controlling little asshole , she thought.  She gestured to her meal. “Sorry, but I’m kind of busy,” she said, irritation creeping into her voice. “Like I already told him this morning .”

Nappa sighed as if he were dealing with an idiot and tried again, speaking slower. “Prince Vegeta requests your presence, Earth woman.”

Bulma’s eye twitched. She was used to Vegeta calling her “Woman,” but somehow, when Nappa said it, he managed to make it sound like a slur. She got the distinct feeling that he hated her. The feeling was mutual.

“And I said I’m busy. If Prince Vegeta wants to talk to me, he can do it just like everyone else–by calling my secretary!” Bulma was beyond annoyed. “Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I’d like to eat the rest of my lunch.”

Nappa’s temple throbbed. He quickly leaned forward. What was he doing? Bulma shrieked and put her hands up to protect her face, but Nappa merely picked her up under her arms like a child, and carried her across the street.

Bulma shrieked and demanded to be released. The two Saiyans at the entrance let them inside the restaurant, and Bulma was carried to the back of the dining room as if she weighed nothing.

The restaurant was dimly lit, with warm, rich colors adorning the walls and an array of succulent meats displayed prominently. The air was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of roasted and grilled delicacies. Vegeta sat at a central table, which was piled high with various cuts of meat. Behind him stood Raditz and another Saiyan Bulma didn’t recognize. Bulma might find it all very imposing if she wasn’t completely pissed off.

“Put me down!” Bulma yelled. “Put me down !! Listen here you big stupid monkey, if you don't–” Nappa let go of her. Bulma wasn’t ready and, with a yelp, she crumpled to the floor in front of the prince.

Vegeta’s sharp eyes flicked from Nappa to Bulma, a scowl settling on his face. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

Nappa straightened, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “You told me you wanted to speak with the woman, Prince Vegeta.”

Vegeta’s gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing. 

Nappa hesitated, glancing at Bulma before begrudgingly correcting himself. “With Miss Briefs , Your Highness.”

“I told you to request her presence, not drag her in kicking and screaming,” the prince snapped, his tone icy.

“One of you has some sense,” Bulma muttered as she stood up. “That’s new.”

“Your highness, I did request her presence, but she was just across the street,” Nappa said. “I thought it would be prudent to bring her over directly.”

“We will discuss this later,” Vegeta said, his nostrils flaring in irritation. “Leave us.”

Nappa bowed slightly and he and the other two Sayians left the dining room.  

“Do you want to explain what the hell is going on here?” Bulma nearly shrieked. “You can’t just kidnap people like that!”

“I assure you, were that my intention I very well could , “ Vegeta said. Bulma wasn’t sure if that was just a really bad attempt at a joke, or if he was threatening her.

Bulma gave him an unimpressed look, crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you want, Vegeta?” she asked, not bothering with the honorific.

“I think you meant, ‘what do you want, Prince Vegeta,’” the Sayain said. He piled some meat on his plate, speared some with his knife, and ate it in one bite. It would seem the prince had found some Earth food to his liking afterall.

“Sure, I’d love to take a seat, thanks,” Bulma says sarcastically, pulling out a chair. On a whim, she stole a rib from his plate. Vegeta made a face, but said nothing.

“I was in the middle of lunch when Thanos came and grabbed me,” she said. “If you didn’t want to share, you shouldn’t have brought me over here.” 

“Thanos?” Vegeta asked.

“It’s a movie character, well, comic book character,” Bulma said by way of explanation. Vegeta looked confused, but as far as Bulma was concerned, that was a personal problem. She didn’t provide further explanation. 

She grabbed another rib and ate it. This time, Vegeta’s eye visibly twitched. “ Must you eat from my plate, Woman?” he snapped. “If you’re hungry, get your own food!”

“I could,” Bulma agreed. She didn’t. She swallowed her bite and asked, “What do you want?”

Vegeta didn’t speak at first. He seemed to look everywhere but at her, and there was a hint of color in his cheeks. Was he… Was the prince blushing?

Bulma got an uncomfortable feeling, suddenly wishing Vegeta hadn’t dismissed his men.

Neither of them said anything for a moment. Just when Bulma was about to explode and yell at him to say something, he finally spoke.

“It has been nearly two years since our arrival on your planet,” he said. Bulma nodded for him to continue, picked up another bite of meat from his plate. He huffed, but allowed it. “In that time, there have been five successful half-Saiyan births.” A pause. “That we are aware of.”

Bulma, with a bite of lamb halfway to her mouth, paused and blinked. Out of all the things she thought the prince was going to bring up, that… was not even anywhere near the top one hundred.

Vegeta looked increasingly uncomfortable but tried to hide it behind his usual stern demeanor. “I need your help t–” 

“Oh my god, are you propositioning me?” Bulma spluttered, standing up so quickly that her chair nearly toppled over.

“No, that’s not—” Vegeta turned an unnatural shade of red. “You vain creature! Of course you would assume–” Vegeta was finding it impossible to finish a thought, apparently. “For god’s sake, Woman! Would you sit down and shut up and listen for once in your life?”

The two of them stared at each other for a moment, tension crackling in the air. Vegeta's fists clenched. "Our doctors have confirmed that there's something about the combination of our DNA that leads to children even stronger than their Saiyan parents," he said, his voice tight. "I need your help in compiling a list of suitable women for… the task."

Oh. So, he wasn’t asking her to be his royal baby mama. A surge of relief flooded through her.

Bulma scoffed, crossing her arms. "And why would you think I'd serve up some poor unsuspecting women to be part of your weird breeding program?"

A vein visibly popped in Vegeta's temple as his jaw tightened. Bulma pressed on, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "For all I know, this is just part of your plan to lure us all into a false sense of security before taking over the planet by force." She wouldn’t put it past them. 

Vegeta's eyes flashed with anger. "We will never use force against you," he said through gritted teeth.

Bulma laughed bitterly. "Oh yeah? Explain Nappa."

A dark shadow passed over Vegeta's face. "He will be dealt with for his transgression," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Bulma's mind flashed to the files she had read, the ones she didn't have the security clearance for but had accessed anyway. Much had been redacted, but she could read between the lines. Vegeta had admitted to what had sometimes happened to planets his people had conquered under the tyrannical rule of a being called Frieza. She kept talking, unable to stop herself. "How do we know you won't purge us like you've done to others?"

At that, Vegeta completely lost his temper. He stood up, slamming his hands on the table with a force that rattled the dishes. 

Bulma took an involuntary step back, her heart pounding in her chest. Vegeta was visibly shaken. His eyes filled with a raw, desperate intensity and his breath was coming in ragged gasps as he struggled to regain his composure. 

A moment later, and the mask of a scowl was firmly back in place. “There will be no more purges,” he said, voice steady but oddly hollow. He seemed to be elsewhere, a distant, glassy look in his eyes. “Leave me, Woman.”

Bulma took another step backwards, then two more. She stumbled a bit, then turned and ran out the door.

Chapter Text

"All warfare is based on deception." - Sun Tsu

Bulma left the restaurant, her steps hurried as if she could outrun the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She made it to her car before a sob escaped, sharp and uncontrollable. She quickly shut the door behind her, sinking into the driver’s seat and gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. She took a deep breath, trying to pull herself together. After a few moments, she started the engine and drove home, the familiar streets blurring as tears filled her eyes.

By the time she reached Capsule Corporation, Bulma had forced her emotions back under control. She took a moment to compose herself before heading to the labs. Her secretary, Mrs. Carawan, a plump older woman with curly gray hair, greeted her with a concerned look.

"Good afternoon, Miss Briefs," Mrs. Carawan said, holding a stack of files. "Yamcha called—six times."

Bulma rolled her eyes, not bothering to hide her annoyance. "I don’t care," she muttered, mostly to herself. “Please hold my calls.”

“Of course, Miss. Briefs.”

Bulma tried to focus on the project at hand, a new energy-efficient engine for Capsule Corp. It didn’t involve any new Saiyan technology—just the modifications they’d been using for months now. But no matter how hard she tried, her mind kept wandering back to Vegeta. His reaction had been so intense, so unlike anything she’d ever seen from him. He almost always seemed to let her yell at him without much response, and when he did lose his cool, it was never that bad. Never that visceral. 

It was as if he had been on the verge of a panic attack when she brought up the idea of a purge.

She snorted at the thought. It was pretty rich for him to be upset at her for bringing it up when he’s the one who had actually participated in destroying worlds.

Her cell phone rang, breaking her from her thoughts. She glanced at the screen, ready to ignore it if it was Yamcha, but saw her mother’s name instead.

"Hi, Mom," Bulma answered, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Hello, dear! Just a reminder, Saiyan dignitaries will be coming over for dinner tomorrow night." She sounded excited. “Cook is serving ebein –Oh, I do hope I’m saying that right–it’s a type of boar native to the western hemisphere of Vegetasei.”

Bulma checked her phone calendar and cursed under her breath. She had completely forgotten about the dinner. "Right, thanks for the reminder."

"Is everything okay, Bulma? You sound a bit off."

Bulma sighed. "It's nothing, Mom. Just really busy."

"Oh, I had thought that being dragged across the street by a Saiyan royal guard into Prince Vegeta’s favorite restaurant would be quite upsetting!" Panchy giggled, the sound light and airy.

Bulma groaned, slumping over her workbench. "Someone recorded that?" she asked.

"Someone recorded that," Panchy confirmed cheerfully.

Bulma leaned back in her chair and groaned.

“Don’t worry dear, I called Mr. Georgiano,” Panchy said, referring to their lawyer. “He’ll make sure the videos are down within the hour.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Bulma said. Not that it would do much. If people had already seen it, the damage had already been done.

“Sweetheart, what’s the matter?”

Bulma sighed. "I… spoke to Prince Vegeta, Mom.” She recapped their conversation for her mother.

Panchy laughed. “He really said, ‘suitable human woman’?"

“ Yes ,” Bulma groaned. “Can you believe that ass?”

“Suitable? You mean, like for–”

“ Yes ,” Bualma cut her off, not wanting to hear the end of that sentence.

"Oh my ,” Panchy exclaimed. “How forward of him!" 

Bulma waved her hands frantically. "No, no, no. Not me . He said he wanted me to help him choose someone."

"Well, why not you?" Panchy asked, her voice dripping with maternal pride. "You’re quite suitable!"

"Mom!" Bulma said, exasperated.

Panchy giggled. Then, in a rare serious tone, said, "I see that boy nearly every evening, training until he drops from exhaustion. A man doesn’t push himself like that without good reason."

Bulma dismissed her mother’s words. What did his stupid obsessive training regiment have to do with his need for a “suitable” human female?

"I’m not really seeing the connection,” she said. 

“Well, he’s got more on his plate than just Earth, doesn’t he?” Bulma heard chopping in the background. Panchy must have been in the kitchen. “That poor thing has to worry about the Galactic Coalition as well and if your father’s contacts are to be believed, not all of the planets in the coalition are too keen on having Earth join.”

Bulma already knew this. She had been hacking into her father’s government server, keeping herself updated for over a year now. The other planets in the coalition saw Earth as a liability, not viewing its technological advancements as a net positive like the Saiyans did. Yardrat had been especially vocal, deeming Earth underdeveloped and unworthy of their strategic partnerships. Dr. Briefs apparently remained hopeful though, if his emails were any indication. The coalition had come to a compromise with Vegetasei and agreed to a gradual integration process to see if Earth was worth it. Dr. Briefs had taken that as an invitation to prove that Earth could compete on the interplanetary level. Could be one of the Big Dogs.

And thus, the Earth-Sayian Accord had been born. And as far as the coalition was concerned, Earth was the Sayian's problem... should anything go pear-shaped.

“I know that Mom, but what has that got to do with Vegeta’s sudden interest in a mail order bride?”

“You said it yourself dear, there have been five beautiful babies born since their arrival, and they’ve all been exceedingly powerful, the little dears. 

“And more powerful than their Sayian parents, to boot!” Panchy continued. “My, wouldn’t a robust population of half-human, half-Sayians be attractive to the Coalition?”

Bulma had to admit, that did seem plausible. Her eyes narrowed. “But how would we know who those half-Sayians were loyal to, huh? The Earth, or Vegetasei?”

“My goodness , so suspicious!” Panchy said. “I don’t know where you get it from.”

Me either , Bulma thought. Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one worried about the future.

“It’s not called the Sayian Empire for no reason, Mom," she said, exasperated.

Panchy sighed softly. "Sweetheart, wouldn’t it be better if you just talked to Prince Vegeta? Why not just ask him yourself?"

Bulma scoffed. "Yeah right," she said. “I can hear him now.” She launched into a mocking impersonation of Vegeta, deepened her voice. "‘ Woman, do you really think I would condescend to explain my actions to you?’" She snorted. "He’d never just give me an honest answer."

"Oh, you don’t know that," Panchy countered gently. "The worst thing that could happen is he doesn’t answer!"

"The worst thing that could happen is he could break my neck with his pinky finger," Bulma muttered darkly.

“Oh Bulma, you’re so dramatic.”

“No, I’m realistic.”

"You know,” Panchy said thoughtfully, or rather, conspiratorially, “Every time you’re in the room that boy can’t stop staring at you."

Bulma’s eyes widened, her heart stuttered for a moment. She really wasn’t sure what to think of that, so she deflected. "I’m, uh, really busy with work, Mom. I… have to go now."

Panchy giggled. "Alright, dear. Don’t forget, dinner at seven tomorrow," she reminded her. "Formal wear, please!"

"I might not make it," Bulma said. “Got a lot going on right now.”

"Oh, you've always got a lot going on," Panchy said. "You still need to eat." 

"’Bye, Mom."

"And don't forget to talk to that sweet boy!"

“Bye , Mom .”

Bulma hung up, rolled her eyes. Her mother was wrong–talking to “that sweet boy” (Was she high?) wasn’t the answer.

Hacking into his servers and finding out everything she needed to know about her enemy was the answer. Duh .

Bulma discarded the project she was working on and moved to her desk, her mind already calculating the steps she needed to take. Her workspace was cluttered with blueprints, gadgets, and various pieces of advanced technology. She cleared a spot on her desk, pushing aside a half-assembled circuit board and a stack of research papers.

She powered up her custom-built laptop, a sleek machine with enhanced processing capabilities far beyond any commercially available model. It whirred to life, the screen flickering as it loaded her encrypted operating system. Bulma connected an array of devices: signal jammers to block any outgoing alerts, a decryption module to break through the Saiyan security protocols, and a series of proxy servers to mask her digital trail. Each device clicked into place with satisfying precision.

Next, she pulled out a small, nondescript box from a hidden drawer. Inside were several USB drives, each containing different pieces of sophisticated hacking software she had developed over the years. She selected one, labeled "Project Insight," and inserted it into the laptop.

As the software initialized, Bulma's fingers hovered over the keyboard. She was on the verge of breaching the Saiyan Empire's most secure servers. The gravity of what she was about to do settled over her like a leaden cloak. She paused, her mind racing through the ethical and moral ramifications of her actions.

Article 4, Section 7 of the Earth-Saiyan Accord explicitly forbade unauthorized access to either party's classified information: "Any act of espionage, including but not limited to unauthorized access to secure data, shall be considered a direct breach of the accord and an act of aggression." Bulma had memorized the document, searching for loopholes and flaws. She had found none.

Hacking could be considered an attack. And Saiyans usually only responded to an attack in one way. Would they hold to the accord if they caught her? Was she willing to find out?

She thought about the potential consequences. If she succeeded, she might uncover crucial information that could protect Earth. She could learn more about the Saiyans' true intentions, their weaknesses that could be exploited if necessary, and any secrets they might be harboring. But if she failed, the fallout could be catastrophic. The Saiyans could see this as an act of war, and Earth was in no position to defend itself against a full-scale Saiyan assault. 

Not yet, anyway.

Bulma's mind weighed the pros and cons. On one hand, knowledge was power. Having more information about their "allies" could only benefit Earth in the long run. 

But on the other hand, the risk was immense. She wasn't just endangering herself; she was putting her family, her company, and her entire planet at risk.

Her fingers trembled slightly as they hovered over the keyboard. Was she prepared to take that gamble?

The words of the accord echoed in her mind, a stark reminder of the precarious balance she was teetering on. She took a deep breath, steeling herself. This wasn't just about curiosity or defiance. This was about ensuring the safety and future of her planet.

A thought occurred to her.

Vegeta ( ugh ) had identified the issue with the IESG boosters that morning. They hadn’t been tested in the field yet, but Bulma knew her calculations were flawless. 

That meant… the boosters would work now. 

Earth would be able to defend itself from a catastrophic attack, she was sure of it. And anyway, it wasn’t like there was any real threat of getting caught. The odds were as slim as a whale falling from the sky and landing in her lap. Just because it was possible didn’t mean it would ever happen. Bulma was too good at her job to get caught.

Plus, she had seen the Saiyans’ technology setup before Earth had lent its expertise. Sure, they had space-traveling capabilities, but their security systems were laughably inadequate. They had brute strength and raw power, but finesse? That was something they lacked. Their firewalls were riddled with vulnerabilities, their encryption easily breakable with the right tools and knowledge. All weaknesses Bulma could easily exploit.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady her shaking fingers, and got to work. Her fingers danced over the keyboard, executing a series of commands that bypassed the initial layers of security. The first few attempts were smooth, almost too easy. But then the system kicked her out, an abrupt rejection that made her curse under her breath.

Undeterred, Bulma tried again. She modified her approach, injecting a Trojan horse into their network. Her eyes narrowed in concentration as she navigated through the labyrinth of code. Another wall, another setback. She wiped her brow, frustration mounting, but the thrill of the challenge kept her going. She couldn't afford to fail. Not now.

Her third attempt met with more resistance. The Saiyan system seemed to recognize her intrusion, countering her every move with the ferocity of a grand master. Bulma gritted her teeth, her mind racing through possibilities. Finally, she saw a chink in their armor—a backdoor she could exploit. With a few deft keystrokes, she slipped in, bypassing their defenses entirely.

She was in.

The screen before her filled with lines of data, a treasure trove of information waiting to be sifted through. Bulma's eyes darted over the contents quickly, honing in on anything pertinent. There were files on their military strategies, detailed reports on the Earth-Saiyan alliance, and logs of communications between key Saiyan leaders. She kept searching, going so far back in the logs she came across files mentioning the Planet Trade Organization.

But what she sought was hidden further within. She navigated through records of technological advancements, scrutinizing notes on experiments with energy manipulation. These were projects and breakthroughs that the Saiyans had not shared with Earth, but nothing that screamed immediate danger. They were advancements that enhanced their energy efficiency, improved their space travel, and increased their combat capabilities. But there was no immediate red flag of a looming threat.

However, as she dug deeper, a few references to something called Project Ascension caught her eye. The name was intriguing, ominous even. Bulma's heart raced as she initiated a search for Project Ascension, her curiosity piqued. Just as she began to access the files, the system kicked her out again, a wall slamming down before her.

"No," she muttered, her frustration mounting. She tried to regain access, her fingers flying over the keys in a desperate attempt to break through the barrier. But every time she got close, the system shut her out, more aggressively than before. It was as if the system itself had become sentient, recognizing her intrusion and retaliating with a vengeance.

Bulma's jaw tightened as she worked, her frustration growing with each failed attempt. Realizing she had hit an impasse, she made a quick decision. She managed to save a few files onto a secure, encrypted drive, just in case. It was a calculated risk, but one she deemed necessary. With the files safely stored, she switched gears to cover her tracks. Her hands moved deftly, erasing logs, wiping footprints, covering her tracks with extreme precision.

She hoped she had managed to save something useful. Bulma opened the files she had managed to save, her heart pounding with anticipation. But as she scanned the contents, her excitement quickly waned. It was all innocuous stuff, useless, things she already knew. Standard reports on Saiyan military exercises, basic schematics of their ships, and mundane logs of supply runs. Nothing groundbreaking.

She had, however, managed to salvage a significant number of files concerning the Planet Trade Organization—the PTO. While she didn’t know much about it, she was aware that it was linked to the notorious warlord Frieza of the now-defunct Cold Empire.

Bulma snorted. Empire was pushing it—crime syndicate was more like it. Hopefully, she could learn something useful from these files. The Saiyans had been one of Frieza’s victims. Hopefully these files would give her something useful about them. About Vegeta.

About Project Ascension. 

Much of it was redacted, but words and phrases jumped out at her from the chaotic mess: "subjugation," "Frieza," "purge protocols," “starvation,” “disease,” "enslavement operations." Despite the damage, the file painted a chilling picture of the PTO's methods. It was enough to confirm the brutality of Frieza's rule, but not enough to provide any new insights or actionable intelligence.

Bulma sighed, rubbing her temples as the tension in her shoulders grew. The fragments she had were tantalizing but ultimately insufficient. They were puzzle pieces that, when put together, still formed an incomplete picture. She needed more.

Determined, she opened another file. The screen flickered, and once again, displayed heavily redacted information interspersed with garbled text. Her eyes scanned the jumbled data, catching glimpses of coherent phrases amidst the chaos. She pieced together what she could, the words forming a tenuous thread of understanding.

"...Kakarot... rescue mission... saved his people from annihilation... unparalleled strength...Ascension..."

Bulma's brow furrowed. There was that word Ascension again! Kakarot's heroism was well-known, but this hinted at something deeper, something more significant. She continued reading, her breath quickening as more hints emerged.

"...Enslaved... Prince... Kakarot's triumph..."

Her heart skipped a beat. The implications were confusing. Everyone knew Kakarot was celebrated as the savior of his people, but the prince had been notably absent from the narrative until after the Saiyan uprising against Frieza. After Frieza’s defeat, Vegeta had quickly begun the task of uniting the universe. But where had he been during Kakarot's fight with Frieza?

And where had he been before that?

Within the PTO files, Bulma came across an old video from 755, when she would have been about twenty-one. The video quality was poor and it cut in and out. It was grainy, in black and white. As the image stabilized, she saw a large cafeteria, dimly lit, filled with rows of metallic tables and benches. The walls were adorned with alien hieroglyphs and harsh lights flickered overhead, casting an eerie glow. The place was bustling with a variety of extraterrestrial beings, each in uniforms marking them as part of the Planet Trade Organization.

Three men who looked oddly familiar sat at a table by themselves, away from the other crowded tables. The largest of them had a bald head and a hulking physique, his face set in a permanent scowl. The one next to him had wild, untamed hair cascading down his back, his eyes sharp and alert. The third, smaller but exuding a fierce presence, had a distinctive widow's peak and an air of authority that was unmistakable… What were the odds another group of Sayians looked exactly like the prince and his security detail? It had to be them. She studied Vegeta’s face. It looked nearly identical to the man she had the misfortune of seeing earlier that day. 

A figure approached them—a creature with darker skin and tentacle-like appendages sprouting from his head, his eyes glowing with a faint luminescence. He moved with a predator’s grace, his steps light but deliberate. He sat next to Vegeta, placed his tray on their table.

Nappa and Raditz tensed, muscles coiling as if ready to spring into action. But Vegeta raised a hand, motioning for them to wait. He leaned forward, saying something to the alien. Though the video had no sound, the intensity of their exchange was palpable. The alien shook his head and began to eat, his movements deliberate and slow. Was he trying to taunt the Sayians? Why?

There was a blur of motion so swift that Bulma could barely track it. The next moment, the alien was on the floor, gasping, with Vegeta’s boot planted firmly on his chest. The prince's face was a mask of cold fury, his lips moving as he spat out words that Bulma could only imagine were threats or demands. The alien's eyes widened in fear and he trembled under the prince's merciless gaze.

Bulma's hands shook as she paused the video. The feed continued for another ten minutes but she wasn’t sure if she could stomach this. But she had to know what happened next. Steeling herself, she pressed play.

Chapter Text

Bulma watched the feed, unable to look away.

Vegeta bent down and, in one deft movement, yanked a tentacle-like appendage from the alien’s head. The alien began to writhe in pain as he bled, his mouth open in a silent scream of agony. Bulma watched, eyes wide, as Vegeta leaned in closer still. He took a bite out of the tentacle, chewing for a moment before he spat it out and tossed it to the floor. 

The alien began to plead, his body trembling with desperation. Though the video quality was poor, Bulma was certain she could see a smirk on Vegeta's face. The cruel amusement was evident even through the grainy footage. Vegeta raised his hand, a small orb of energy forming at his fingertip. With ruthless precision, he released the beam directly into the alien’s face.

Then, Vegeta’s shoulders began to shake. For a split second, Bulma wondered if Vegeta was upset by what he had just done, but no—he was laughing. The manic glee in his expression was unmistakable. Vegeta’s eyes glinted with a crazed intensity, his mouth wide in a laugh that seemed to echo through the screen, even without sound.

Bulma stared, horrified but unable to look away. Her mind raced, grappling with the stark reality of what she had just witnessed. This was the man they were supposed to trust with the safety and future of their planet? This was how the prince of all Saiyans treated others? 

Bulma held no illusions about the alliance with the Saiyans. She had always been suspicious of their true intentions. But the image of Vegeta, not just inflicting pain but reveling in the suffering he had caused… She hadn’t thought it would be this monstrous. He was a psychopath, a wild animal in a regal façade.

Her stomach churned with a mix of fear and revulsion. The sheer brutality, the unrestrained cruelty—how could Earth ever believe that such a being could be a reliable ally?

There was a knock at her office door. Bulma nearly jumped, her nerves still raw from the video she had just seen. “I’m busy!” she yelled, her voice cracking with a mix of fear and anger.

The door opened anyway, and Yamcha stepped in, followed by a perturbed Mrs. Carawan. “I tried to stop him, Miss Briefs,” she said apologetically, glaring at the long-haired man.

“That’s... alright,” Bulma replied through gritted teeth. Could he have picked a worse time? I’m busy! Bulma didn’t want to deal with her ex right now. I told security not to let him in. Someone is getting fired today.

Mrs. Carawan glared at Yamcha once more before leaving and shutting the door behind her.

“Bulma… hey,” Yamcha said, his voice soft and overly concerned, as if he were speaking to a timid wild animal. Bulma caught a glimpse of herself in the computer monitors on her desk. Her glasses were askew, and her hair had half fallen from its clip. She glanced down and saw a large coffee stain down her front. She hadn’t even felt it happen. Just how engrossed had she been? She looked to the clock and almost groaned. It was already after eighteen hundred hours. Where had the day gone?

Yamcha stepped closer, his brow furrowing with concern. “Bulma, you look exhausted. Have you been getting any sleep?”

She straightened her glasses and tried to smooth her hair. “I’m fine. Go away.”

Yamcha looked around her cluttered office, taking in the stacks of papers and scattered equipment. “You don’t look fine. You look like you’ve been working non-stop.”

Bulma’s irritation flared, her annoyance with her ex compounded by the disturbing video of Vegeta she had just watched. “Yeah, I know! That’s what I do, Yamcha! I work!” she snapped, her voice sharp. “I work all day while you’re out flirting with other women!”

“That’s not fair,” he said, his voice softening further. “I’ve been really–”

“Get out!” she yelled, the intensity of her anger surprising even herself.

Yamcha looked stricken. He tried again. “Look, I saw–I saw what Prince Vegeta’s guard did to you today–”

“You don’t get to do this anymore, Yamcha!” she said, her voice trembling with rage. The haunting images of Vegeta's cruelty flashed in her mind. Unbidden, on repeat. “You don’t get to come over like this anymore. We’re over .”

“Bulma–”

“Don’t make me call security,” she said, her voice darkening, the edge of hysteria creeping in.

“Bulma, please, I–”

She lost it.

“I said get out!” Her voice was raw with anger and fear. “Get the fuck out.” Bulma picked up a stapler from her desk and hurled it at him, followed by a mug and whatever else she could grab. Yamcha finally took the hint and left, the door closing with a final thud.

The soundless laughter of Vegeta echoed in her mind, a haunting melody she couldn’t escape.

She nearly gave in to the temptation to fall apart and cry, but she didn’t have time for that right now. She needed to keep gathering evidence. Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself and returned to her computer. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she initiated a search through the video files, instructing the system to find all content featuring individuals who looked like Vegeta.

The results came back quickly: about 100 videos, nearly all corrupted or incomplete.

She clicked on one. The screen flickered to life, revealing a dimly lit room filled with strategic maps and holographic displays. Vegeta stood in the corner with Nappa, looking much younger, perhaps a teenager. He was smaller than everyone else, a stark contrast to the imposing figures around him.

In the room were various alien officers, their appearances as diverse as they were intimidating. One had a sleek, reptilian form with a long tail that flicked back and forth. Another had a muscular build with deep, crimson skin and horns protruding from his forehead. At the center of the room stood a diminutive figure with an eerie, almost ethereal presence. His pale skin and dark lips contrasted sharply with the black and purple of his attire, and his eyes held a cold, calculating glint. Beside him, a tall, elegant being with long, flowing hair and a perpetual sneer waited attentively.

The small, pale figure turned to the tall one. “What do you propose we do about this troublesome planet, Zarbon? The inhabitants are proving... resistant.”

Zarbon bowed slightly before speaking. “Perhaps a demonstration of power would suffice." The video cut out for a moment. "—stroy their largest city and the rest will fall in line.”

The diminutive leader’s lips curled in disdain. “Predictable. And disappointingly un satisfactory.”

From his corner, Vegeta spoke up, his voice steady and confident despite his youth. “Why waste resources? Send in a covert team, take out their leadership, and install a puppet regime. The rest will follow without the need for extensive force.”

The pale leader turned to Vegeta, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Well, well, it seems our pet monkey has learned to think. How delightful .” He laughed. “Zarbon, you could learn a thing or two.”

As Frieza’s attention shifted back to the strategic displays, Vegeta glanced at Zarbon and smirked darkly. The contempt in his eyes was unmistakable.

Bulma closed the video, her thoughts racing. Vegeta had shown a chilling capacity for strategic thinking and ruthlessness, and at such a young age. The realization made her stomach churn. This was the being Earth was relying on to create a fair and equal alliance? A Sayian who had thrived in an environment of cruelty and manipulation.

Bulma felt the hysteria creeping back in, a cold wave of panic threatening to overtake her. She forced herself to take deep breaths. The only way to fight the mounting anxiety was to keep busy, to keep digging for the truth.

She clicked on another file at random, not noticing the date. This one was in black and white but of higher quality, shot from someone's body cam.

The footage showed a chaotic scene: a squadron from Frieza’s army rounding up villagers on some forgotten planet. The air was thick with smoke and the cries of terrified people. Soldiers moved with brutal efficiency, herding the villagers into a confined space. The camera's perspective was jostled, adding to the sense of chaos.

The body cam's perspective shifted as whoever wore it turned to face a nearby commotion. Vegeta was confronting a younger soldier, his arms crossed, a sneer firmly in place. The soldier was a humanoid alien, with scales covering his arms and a crest of spines along his head. His eyes were wide with fear as he stammered, trying to make amends. “I can make it up to you, please ! I promise I can—”

Vegeta's expression was cold, merciless. “There are no second chances in Frieza’s army,” he said, and without hesitation, he struck the soldier down. The young alien crumpled to the ground, lifeless. 

The person wearing the body cam laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Damn, Vegeta, was that really necessary?”

Vegeta turned to the camera, his expression eerily blank. “Frieza would h—”

Bulma couldn’t watch anymore. She cut off the video and stumbled to the bathroom, barely making it before she was sick. She clung to the sink, her body shaking, the reality of Vegeta’s brutality crashing down on her. She rinsed her mouth and stared at her reflection and wondered what the hell she was going to do about the cruel prince.

It was well after midnight when Bulma finally decided to turn in for the night. The labs were quiet, everyone else had gone home hours ago. The hum of machinery in her office became a distant whisper as she made her way through the dimly lit hallways. Stepping outside, she was greeted by the cool night air, a welcome respite from the stifling tension that had been building inside her all day.

Bulma cursed. She could really go for a smoke right now. But if she smoked everytime she wanted to, she’d end up a chain smoker by lunchtime tomorrow.

As she walked toward her house, Scratch, her dad’s cat, meowed and darted between her legs. She nearly tripped but managed a tired smile. “Hey, Scratch,” she murmured, giving the cat a quick scratch behind the ears before continuing on her way.

She passed the gravity chamber, its lights glaring against the darkness. Bulma noticed it was in use. The control panel indicated an insane level of gravity. No one else pushed it this hard or used it this often. No one but Vegeta. She paused, then kept walking.

Panchy's words from earlier drifted through her mind: "I see that boy nearly every evening, training until he drops from exhaustion. A man doesn’t push himself like that without good reason."

Well, now it wasn't a mystery, was it? why he pushed himself so hard. Galactic domination was probably difficult work. He had to keep up his strength, what with all those people he would inevitably kill for, apparently, just looking at him wrong.

She stopped walking again. 

“Actually,” she said to herself, “you know what… Fuck it.” 

Bulma turned around, her steps firmer, her mind made up. The adrenaline from earlier was still coursing through her veins, mingling with her anxiety. She was going to tell that asshole to get the hell off of her property. She might not be able to trespass him from the planet (yet) but she sure as shit could trespass him from Capsule Corp grounds.

She pounded on the door to the gravity chamber, the sound echoing through the quiet night. Her heart raced, the anticipation of the looming confrontation making her hands tremble slightly. But no one answered the door. Bulma scowled. She knew that bastard was in there. 

She pounded some more, her frustration mounting. Still no answer. Bulma glanced at the control panel, moved to the manual override, her fingers flying over the controls. With a satisfied smirk, she initiated the shutdown sequence. She watched as the lights on the panel dimmed and the whirring of the machinery ground to a halt.

Inside, she could hear a resounding “WHAT THE FUCK.” Vegeta’s voice, filled with fury. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for the inevitable confrontation.

A moment later, the door slammed open with a force that rattled the entire frame. In the distance, night birds flew from the trees, fleeing the sound. Vegeta stood there, nostrils flaring, his chest heaving with exertion. Sweat glistened on his chiseled muscles. His only attire was a pair of tight shorts which clung to his powerful thighs. His eyes burned with an intensity that made Bulma’s breath hitch from fear and, despite herself, something else as well. She felt a blush creep up her neck, unsure where to look.

His expression darkened as he demanded, “What the fuck do you want?” He seemed to be just as upset as he had been that afternoon. Or, perhaps even more so.

Bulma took an involuntary step back, suddenly unsure of herself. Was it really the brightest idea to provoke the Saiyan prince? For crying out loud, she hadn’t even brought a weapon. Not that it would do much good against him anyway.

Vegeta took a menacing step forward, his presence overwhelming. “I asked you a question,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Answer me, Woman.”

Chapter Text

"Engage people with what they expect; it is what they are able to discern and confirms their projections. It settles them into predictable patterns of response, occupying their minds while you wait for the extraordinary moment — that which they cannot anticipate." - Sun Tsu

“Answer me, Woman.”

Bulma gulped. 

Vegeta approached her, his eyes blazing with anger. His jaw clenched tight, his muscles rippled with tension. Every line of his body seemed to scream barely restrained violence. 

Thoughts of the young soldier who had pleaded for mercy, only to be killed by Vegeta without a second thought, swam through her mind. Bulma’s breath caught in her throat, her knees buckling as she crumpled to the ground. Despite her efforts to hold back, tears sprang to her eyes. 

He was absolutely terrifying . 

But... Bulma reminded herself that if Vegeta had intended to kill her, he would have done so already. He hadn't, because he needed her. The Earth-Saiyan Alliance needed her. Her innovations gave her leverage over the Saiyans. It gave her strength. 

Bulma stood back up, feeling shaky but trying to hide it. His wild hair made him seem taller, but she was about the same height as him. That thought almost made her smirk, until she thought of the alien from the cafeteria, recalling Vegeta ripping the tentacle from his head as easily as one might pluck a flower—NO! She wouldn’t let herself think about that right now.

She had leverage. She had power . Power was something Sayains understood, and respected. He would not hurt her. If the prince was anything, he was pragmatic. They need me , she reassured herself. 

"Y-You have five minutes to get off Capsule Corp Property."

Vegeta's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing within them. He stepped forward, his presence oppressive. "On whose orders?" he demanded, his voice a low growl, each word dripping with disdain.

Bulma held her ground, though her heart hammered in her chest. "Mine," she declared, lifting her chin defiantly. "I don’t need anyone else’s permission to decide who is allowed on Capsule Corp grounds," she declared, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her.

He regarded her for a moment, then scoffed, a derisive sound that almost turned into a laugh. Without a word, he turned back toward the gravity chamber, dismissing her completely. It was clear he couldn't believe she had interrupted him for something so trivial.

Bulma saw red. She was too angry to remember just how scared she had been a second ago. How dare he? No one dismissed Bulma Briefs with such blatant disrespect.

“Don’t make me call security,” she said through gritted teeth.

Vegeta still ignored her, his focus entirely on the gravity chamber ahead. The sheer audacity of his indifference only fueled her fury. Without thinking, she sprinted to block his entrance to the chamber.

Vegeta’s frustration was palpable, his scowl deepening as he stared at her. But Bulma was too mad to care about the fact she was playing with fire. “I mean it,” she hissed.

“Step aside,” Vegeta growled, “or I will make you.”

Bulma stood her ground, defiance blazing in her eyes. Vegeta’s patience snapped. He grabbed her by the upper arms and lifted her effortlessly off the ground. She shrieked, struggling in his grasp. Despite his anger, he set her down gently, almost reluctantly, and turned to walk into the gravity chamber, still ignoring her.

Bulma slipped in before he could close the door. Vegeta paused, his body rigid with barely contained rage. His eyes flickered with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine, but she stood her ground.

“I will give you five seconds to get out,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. “If you don’t, well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m not exactly sure what happens to the human skull under 400 Gs.” He grinned wickedly.

Bulma visibly paled. 400 Gs? That was an unthinkable amount. Just how strong was he? Her mind raced, calculating the immense pressure and the catastrophic consequences for a human body.

But even as fear crept back in, a spark of defiance remained. She squared her shoulders, her voice wavering but determined. “You wouldn’t,” she said, “you need me and you know it.”

For a moment, Vegeta’s expression faltered, a flicker of something almost akin to respect in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual scowl.

“Five,” Vegeta began, his voice a low, menacing rumble.

“I want you off my property!” Bulma snapped, her anger boiling over. “I’m calling security.”

“Four,” he continued, ignoring her outburst.

Bulma fumbled with her phone. “I don’t care how strong you are. You don’t scare me!”

"Three," Vegeta's eyes narrowed, his gaze locked on her.

Bulma's anger flared. She couldn't let him win this. Not after everything she'd seen, everything she knew. "You think you can just throw your weight around and everyone will bow down to you, don’t you? This isn't your empire , Vegeta."

"Two," he continued, his voice low and dangerous. 

Don’t you dare!” Bulma's voice was a mixture of fury and desperation.

"One."

In a flash, Vegeta was beside the internal control panel, his movements quick and brutal. The cold light of the chamber reflected off his armor, casting sharp, angular shadows across his face. A humorless smirk twisted his lips. “I suppose today is the day we find out,” he said, his voice a low, menacing purr.

Bulma gasped and clenched her eyes shut, bracing herself for the worst.

Nothing happened.

She opened her eyes to see Vegeta staring at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. “You overstep yourself, Woman. My contract is with your father and the Earth’s governments, not you ,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension. 

Bulma’s breath hitched, her heart pounding in her chest. She had really thought he was about to turn the gravity on. “You think that matters to me? This is my company, and I want you out .”

Vegeta’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. “You have no authority over me, Woman.”

“I have every authority here!” she shot back, her voice rising with each word. 

"If you will not listen to reason..." Vegeta's smirk faded, replaced by a cold, calculating stare. “Fear can be a… powerful tool.”

“Spoken like a true overlord,” she spat.

“Overlord? That's rich. If this is what subjugation is like–” He stalked toward her until they were face to face. “–then you’re fucking welcome.” His grin was predatory. It didn’t reach his eyes.

Bulma stared at his canines, her mind flashing to the image of him chewing on the tentacle, spitting it out, and laughing. “You’re just like Frieza,” she whispered, her voice trembling with raw emotion.

Vegeta barked a laugh, a sound devoid of any warmth. “ Frieza ?” he said. “Would that bastard have offered an alliance with you? No. He would have murdered half your population and enslaved the rest!” he shouted. "And that was if you were lucky!" His nostrils flared, and for a moment, there was something almost pained in his eyes.

“How would you know what it’s like to be weak!” Bulma shot back, tears brimming in her eyes. “To be at the mercy of beings so much more powerful than you. We’re like ants to you!”

Vegeta's expression darkened, the brief flicker of pain in his eyes replaced by cold fury. He turned away from her, his steps measured and deliberate. He paused at the door, as if he might say something, but then, without a word, he launched himself into the sky.

The force of his departure left a small crater in his wake.

Bulma stood there, staring at the spot where he had been. Her legs trembled and she sank to the ground, the adrenaline draining from her body. She wrapped her arms around herself and felt the cold, hard surface of the gravity chamber beneath her.

That night, sleep evaded her. Bulma sat on her balcony, the cool night air doing nothing to help her anxiety. She was already three cigarettes in, the acrid smoke swirling around her like a restless ghost. She knew she had to stop, had to do something productive before she spiraled into madness. The encounter with Vegeta played on an endless loop in her mind, each replay more infuriating than the last. How could she save Earth from the Saiyans when the only proof of Vegeta's true nature lay buried in stolen data?

Her thoughts raced, trying to find a solution that wouldn't implicate her in a crime that could spark interplanetary war. She couldn't just hand over the evidence to her government; that would be a confession, an admission that she had hacked into the Saiyans' servers. But Earth deserved to know the kind of devil they were getting into bed with. It was infuriating! There had to be a way to get this information to the right people without it tracing back to her.

Bulma stubbed out her cigarette, a plan slowly forming in her mind. She could mask her digital fingerprints, reroute the data through a series of proxy servers and anonymizers. If she was careful, if she was precise, she could make it look like the leak came from within the Saiyan ranks. It was a long shot, but it was something. The thought of being productive, of having a plan, brought a flicker of calm to her restless mind.

Determined, Bulma pushed off from the balcony and headed to her labs. She flicked on the light, illuminating the organized chaos of her workspace. Blueprints and schematics were scattered across her desk, mingling with half-empty coffee mugs and discarded snack wrappers. She sat down and powered up her computer, the familiar hum of the machine a comforting sound.

As Bulma opened the PTO files to get started, a notification blinked in the corner of her screen. Her system had completed the search she had initiated earlier—another run through to find every file about Vegeta. Several videos required her review, the system unable to definitively identify the figures in them. She clicked on one, noting the date: 739. The year made her pause; she would have been about six or seven years old then. With a deep breath, she pressed play.

The grainy footage revealed two figures standing in a small, stark white room—a defiant boy in armor and a towering figure clad in similar gear. The taller man had delicate features and a long braid, exuding an aura of cruel elegance. Bulma's heart raced as she recognized him from the video with Vegeta and Frieza. It was Zarbon. He looked younger, but his presence was unmistakable.

That must mean… Could that child be…?

Bulma studied the child.

His face was impossibly young, and he looked underfed, but his hair stuck straight up in a way that was unmistakably familiar. And despite the grainy quality, Bulma could discern a scowl on his face. The resemblance to Vegeta was uncanny.

The little boy mumbled something the camera didn’t pick up. His face was dark with dirt or–Bulma’s heart clenched. Bruises , she thought.

“What was that, Prince Vegeta?” the taller man asked, his tone dripping with mockery. Bulma felt as if the ground had dropped out from beneath her. That was… That really was Vegeta?

But he was so young. He couldn’t be any older than seven.

The boy's scowl deepened. “I said, fuck you , Zarbon!”

Bulma's heart sank, a bad feeling settling in her gut. She knew she should look away,should end the video, but she couldn't. She leaned closer to the screen, unable to tear her eyes away. 

The taller figure, Zarbon, kicked the child so hard he went flying across the empty white room. Bulma, forgetting herself, cried out, before slapping a hand over her mouth. 

Zarbon scoffed, his disdain palpable. It took the boy a minute to stand back up, but he finally did. Vegeta clutched at his stomach, but he did not double over, nor did he cry. 

Zarbon said, “I’m feeling magnanimous today, young prince. I know how hard it is for you stupid monkeys to comprehend anything.” He smirked cruelly. “Why don’t you try that one last time?”

Vegeta took a few deep breaths, wiping the spit and blood from his mouth. “I said,” Vegeta repeated slowly, his voice steady, “ fuck you , Zarbon.”

Zarbon's demeanor shifted, his features taking on an ugly, menacing quality. “You’ll regret that, you little shit,” he snarled, then proceeded to strike the child until he could no longer stand. Zarbon kicked his head a few more times.

Blood pooled around the little boy’s head, and he finally curled in on himself. But he did not beg for mercy. 

“Next time, do as you're told ,” Zarbon said, a malicious grin on his face. “Lord Frieza went through a lot of trouble to line up these missions with your little… time of the month.” He laughed cruelly. “Although, it’s all the same to me if you don’t. I do so relish these little sessions of ours.”

The child remained silent.

“What’s that? Nothing else to say?” Zarbon mocked. “That’s what I thought .” He spat on him.

Zarbon walked off-screen. Bulma heard the hiss of an electric door opening and closing. 

Vegeta didn’t move for a while. Finally, he sat up and crawled, pitifully, to a corner of the room. He moved slowly, awkwardly. Something must have been broken. He was so… so small . The young prince unwrapped his tail from around his waist, clutched it in his hands, and held it to his face. But he did not cry. He didn’t make any sound at all.

Chapter Text

Bulma was crying by the time the video ended. She felt a hollow ache in her chest, a deep well of sorrow and rage at the cruelty Vegeta had been forced to endure. 

She had never considered what Vegeta's childhood had been like, but now, with the evidence stark before her, she felt a torrent of conflicting emotions.

Her hands shook as she navigated to the next video. She needed to understand. She needed to understand him . The screen flickered to life, and she saw Vegeta again, older this time, perhaps a young teen. His features were sharper, his eyes colder, but the same fiery spirit blazed within them. The footage, captured from a body cam, revealed a wounded boy, his armor cracked and smeared with blood.

The voice of the person wearing the body cam was harsh, mocking. “Too bad your mission wasn’t a success, Prince ,” they sneered. “You don’t get results, you and your men don’t eat.” Vegeta’s eyes burned with fury, his jaw clenched tight, but he remained silent. The cruel laughter of the soldier echoed through the chamber, and the video cut off abruptly.

They had starved him. The proud, fierce Saiyan prince had been reduced to a tool, punished for failures beyond his control. Her heart ached for the boy who had been forced to endure such brutality. 

How much of his cold, ruthless demeanor was a shield forged by years of torment?

Bulma clicked on another video file, but the moment the footage began to play, she felt her stomach lurch. Vegeta, stripped down to his shorts, was strung up in chains against a cold, unyielding wall. His torso was marred with fresh, bloody lashes.

He couldn’t have been older than five.

Bulma's breath caught in her throat, a sob tearing through her chest. She slammed her laptop shut, the force of it reverberating through her desk. The machine skidded across the surface, knocking over a cup of pens, a framed photo, and several stacks of papers. 

Hot, angry tears streamed down her face. Anger, raw and visceral, surged through her veins. How could anyone, how could a child , be forced to endure such cruelty? Her mind raced, unable to reconcile the ruthless warrior she thought she knew with the tormented child she had just seen.

She wanted to scream, to hit something, anything, to release the fury and helplessness consuming her. The injustice of it all felt like a weight pressing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. Bulma paced the room, her steps frantic and uneven, each movement fueled by a fire she couldn't extinguish.

She couldn’t–she needed–For the second time that day, Bulma felt sick. She scrubbed her hands over her face, trying not to hyperventilate. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that poor little boy, bloodied and broken.

Suddenly, she remembered what she had read in one of the damaged files. "... Prince… enslaved… elsewhere... Kakarot's triumph..."

The words hadn’t registered at the time. She had gone through so many files, tried to retain so much info at once… She cursed. How could she have been so stupid? Bulma sat down quickly, opening her laptop to pull up that file again. The screen flickered to life, displaying fragmented lines of text and static-laden images. The file was a mess, corrupted data mingling with snippets of coherent information. 

Bulma ran a series of diagnostics. Lines of code streamed across the screen as she initiated recovery protocols. The file stuttered and glitched, but she persisted. Slowly, a few more pieces of the damaged text began to reassemble into coherent phrases.

She pieced together a few of the fragments of Vegeta's past. Her heart ached for the small boy who had been torn from his family and subjected to unimaginable cruelty. Yet, she struggled to reconcile that image with the violent, ruthless man she had seen in the later recordings. It was difficult for her to see both the innocent child and the cruel warrior as the same person.

Her thoughts churned, seeking clarity. The lines between victim and villain blurred, leaving her grappling with her perceptions.

Bulma paced her office, the walls closing in around her as her mind raced. She tried to imagine what it must have been like for Vegeta, a child stolen from his home, forced to endure the horrors of Frieza's regime. Every day would have been a fight for survival, a struggle to maintain some semblance of self. Could she really blame him for the things he had done to stay alive, to protect himself in a world that had shown him no mercy?

Her thoughts shifted to the scene in the cafeteria, and then to the young soldier out on the field. The callous way he had killed them, the manic laughter... Was that genuine enjoyment of suffering, like Frieza and Zarbon? Or was it a learned response, just a part he had played in order to stay alive?

There was a gentle knock at the door. Bulma turned to see her mother, a comforting presence framed in the doorway, bearing a tray with eggs, toast, water, and, most importantly, a steaming cup of coffee.

Was it morning already? Bulma glanced toward the window. The first light of dawn was beginning to creep through the curtains, casting a pale, golden hue across the room.

“Try to nap this afternoon, dear,” her mother said. Panchy placed the tray on Bulma’s cluttered desk, the smell of breakfast momentarily cutting through the fog of her anxiety. Without another word, her mother left her to her work, closed the door softly behind her.

Bulma felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. She loved that her mother understood her so well, knew that sometimes she, like her father, couldn’t rest until an idea was fully explored, a puzzle completely solved. 

And what a puzzle the prince was turning out to be.

Bulma pulled her hair up into a messy bun and took a long sip of the coffee, relishing its bitterness and warmth for a moment.

Unable to stomach any more of Vegeta’s harrowing past, Bulma turned her attention to the more recent files she had managed to save. These were less damaged and filled with mundane details. Standard reports on Saiyan military exercises, basic schematics of their ships, and logs of supply runs filled the screen. Most of it was innocuous, things she had already noted in her files. But among these were snippets of Vegeta's communications with someone back home. Perhaps they would be worth going through. She selected one at random, dated about two years ago.

The alliance with Earth progresses, albeit slower than anticipated. The humans are primitive, but their ingenuity is unexpectedly resourceful. The abundance of sugar in their diet is intolerable. They put it in everything.

-V

It's amusing to hear that even the mightiest warriors have their grievances. Perhaps you could introduce them to more Saiyan-like dietary habits? Though, considering their fragility, it might be too much for them.

How goes the technology collaboration? I understand the scientist’s daughter, Bulma Briefs, is involved?

-T

Humans are baffling creatures. They prioritize convenience over quality. Hence the sugar. As for Miss Briefs, she is loud and opinionated, but surprisingly competent. Her knowledge has been invaluable, despite her incessant chatter.

Could there be any particular reason for your interest in her–and by name, no less? One does wonder.

-V

The tone of these emails threw her off balance. The Vegeta she knew was harsh, domineering, and unyielding. Yet here, he was... almost normal. Almost human. He complained about sugar, acknowledged human ingenuity, and even reluctantly praised her.

Could there be any particular reason for your interest in her–and by name, no less? One does wonder.

Bulma’s heart had skipped a beat at that line. She had no idea he could be so… playful. This was a side of him she had never seen before.

Bulma wondered who this “T” was. She, for Bulma was certain it was a woman, seemed almost… flirtatious in her replies to the prince. Who was she? And why had Vegeta asked for Bulma’s help in selecting a “suitable human female” if he, perhaps, already had someone back home? She could not read fast enough.

Another message, dated a few weeks later, said:

You cannot be serious. Do humans really all eat together? Without any care or worry, like wild animals? It’s hard to imagine such a lack of discipline and order.

I would not say you’ve been missed, however… I suppose your absence has been noticed.

-T

You have no idea. Restaurants are the worst offenders. Strangers dine so close to each other, it's insanity. There’s no sense of personal space or order. It would be so easy to poison or stab an enemy. I do not understand.

I had no idea my ama'ber was such a coward. I shall have to rethink this arrangement, if you cannot even– 

Bulma's cheeks flushed a deep crimson as she read. It felt like she was intruding on a private conversation, something not meant for her eyes. Which, well… obviously she was. Still, this one seemed a little too personal, somehow. 

Ama'ber . That word had not translated. She wondered what it meant.

Bulma found a different thread, scrolled through and read from the middle. 

It was “T” again . Bulma raised a brow. Did Vegeta talk to anyone else?

In light of recent discoveries, my father will be formally requesting the annulment of our engagement. Should my house make preparations for eh'nos bellum ? It would be your right.

-T

That will not be necessary. Fin’de. I release you.

-V

Bulma furrowed her brows. Vegeta had been engaged ? And why weren’t those words translating? She checked the date on those messages. The last one had been sent over a year ago. What had happened around then?

She opened a web browser, searched for intergalactic news from that time period. The screen filled with headlines, articles, and reports. Oh. Of course. That’s when the Frieza Regime Trials had been made public. Or, at least, mostly public.

Bulma leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. She typed “Prince Vegeta’s engagement” into the search bar, but nothing relevant came up. No announcements, no scandalous reports, nothing. Who was T? What had happened to this engagement?

Frustrated, Bulma returned to the trial coverage. The Frieza Regime Trials had been a watershed moment, shaking the foundation of intergalactic politics. But they were also part of the reason she couldn’t stand the prince. His trial had never been made public—nor had anyone else close to him during Frieza’s reign—but everyone had been expected to accept his innocent verdict. That was part of why she’d been so reluctant to trust him, to trust the Sayians.

But if his trial had never been made public, then how could it have had anything to do with the end of their engagement? Maybe the timing was just a coincidence. 

Her frustration mounted. She was missing crucial information somewhere and she knew it.

Bulma thought of the little boy she had seen abused, whipped, and starved. She thought of the man he had grown up to be, a man who seemed to revel in the suffering he inflicted on others. 

She thought of his playful messages to an unknown recipient halfway across the galaxy.

Bulma didn’t know what to think of Prince Vegeta anymore. She had to keep reading, keep learning more. She told herself it was because she was a scientist and research was her duty. But deep down, she knew the truth. 

If she stopped, the rising guilt she was beginning to feel would overwhelm the fragile control she clung to. 

It would suffocate her.

"Have you ever wondered why we’ve never had any Saiyans over for dinner before, dear?” Panchy asked, her voice a gentle murmur that broke the comfortable silence. 

The two of them sat in the living room of the Briefs’ Estate, waiting for their dinner guest, the Sayian Lieutenant Corjeto, to arrive. Dr. Briefs was running a little behind but would join them shortly.

Bulma took a sip of wine, her slender fingers tracing the rim of the glass. She leaned against the couch. Her dress, a black, form-fitting piece that exuded sophistication, clung to her curves with effortless grace.

Bulma was on her third (fifth?) glass of wine, the edges of her world softening under the pleasant haze. The alcohol had long since begun to work its magic, easing the tight knot of tension in her shoulders, in her heart.

Too proud to admit she might have been wrong about Vegeta, and completely unable to face the reality of his abusive past with a sober mind, she had turned to drinking by late afternoon, hoping to drown her conflicted emotions.

The wine, rich and velvety, slid down her throat, bringing a warmth that spread through her veins. She relished the way it dulled the sharp edges of her thoughts, making the tumultuous feelings swirling inside her seem distant and less pressing. The room took on a cozy, almost dreamlike quality, the dim lighting casting soft shadows that danced in rhythm with the flickering candle flames.

Fuck. She might be too drunk. She blinked and sat up straighter. No, she just needed to slow down. Pace herself. Bulma was no lightweight. Besides, she wasn’t sure she could tolerate being alone with her thoughts right now. It seemed every time she closed her eyes, she saw that terrified little boy, clutching his tail to his face.

She shook her head and took another sip of wine despite herself.

Bulma glanced at her mother. Panchy’s dress was a soft, pastel blue with delicate floral patterns. 

"I suppose I haven't really ever thought about it," Bulma admitted quietly, glancing down at her wine glass. She’d never really thought much about the Saiyans, outside of how resolute she was to hate them. She swirled the red liquid, watching the light catch and refract in the depths. The image of blood dripping down Vegeta’s little back, dark crimson rivers against the pallor of his skin, flashed in her mind.

She closed her eyes, fighting a wave of returning nausea. Perhaps drinking had not been the best idea.

Panchy said, "for a Saiyan to dine with you is a great honor. It means they see you as part of their clan, their– Mag'Sipen.

“I believe that means “Great House” in Saiyago. Or is it Mag’Sapen ?” Panchy continued. “I really must ask Chikori.” Panchy’s voice dropped to a whisper. "Lieutenant Corjeto lost his entire family during Frieza’s regime. He has no Great House anymore. The first meal he shared with another, he shared with your father last month."

For a moment Bulma thought of how upset Vegeta had been when Bulma had admitted to sharing food with Kakarot. She thought of when he had invited, well attempted to invite, her to dine with him. Had he, in his own way, been trying to reach out to her?

She was unable, or perhaps unwilling, to name the feeling starting to form in the pit of her stomach.

A small, sad smile played at Panchy's lips. She continued, “Tuna on rye–your father had asked Cook for an extra.” A soft laugh. “They’ve worked together since the Saiyan’s arrived but it took nearly two years to share a meal together. Can you imagine? Dining alone, all that time. How lonely.”

Bulma stared at her mother. A single tear fell down her cheek.

“Oh, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Panchy asked.

I think... I think I messed up, she admitted, at least to herself.

“Nothing, it's nothing." Bulma said, quickly swiped at the tear. "I'm sorry, Mom. Just something in my eye."

Chapter Text

"In war, truth is the first casualty." – Aeschylus

Bulma woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and a stomach that churned like an angry snake. She vowed to never drink that much again, just like she did every time she woke up feeling this ill. But it wasn’t just the pounding in her head that was bothering her—there was an ungodly amount of noise coming from outside. And it was much too early for this shit.

She scowled, pushing herself up from the bed. She tried to storm over to her balcony, but instead, she doubled over, clutching her stomach and desperately trying not to puke on her pristine, ivory designer rug. The nausea passed in a wave, leaving her feeling weak and shaky. No more Château Margaux 709 for Bulma ever, ever again. She took a deep breath, straightened up, and made her way outside.

The early morning air was breezy and cool. It felt amazing against Bulma’s clammy skin. The night sky was beginning to give way to soft hues of pink and orange. 

Down by the labs, a group of men were bustling around, preparing to transport something with a heavy-duty crane. Their movements were brisk and efficient, the sound of their work echoing up to her balcony. It made absolutely no sense. Was this, or was this not, Capsule Corp? It was in their name, for crying out loud. Why would they need a crane to pick up and transport something? And why at 0600 fucking hours? She ran her fingers through her tangled hair in frustration. 

Bulma grabbed her cell phone from the dresser and went back outside. Mr. Wu, the head of operations, picked up on the third ring.

“Mr. Wu,” she began, trying to sound authoritative despite the queasiness swirling in her stomach, “care to explain why your guys are waking me up at—” she checked the time on her phone and groaned, it was earlier than she thought—“0530 hours?” She hoped she sounded like she meant business. Truth be told, she was pretty sure she was going to barf soon.

There was a pause on the other end of the line before Mr. Wu spoke, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. “The order came in yesterday, Miss Briefs. Prince Vegeta requested the gravity chamber be moved to his accommodations. Dr. Briefs okayed it.”

Bulma didn’t have time to be upset by those words. She muttered a thank you, ended the call, and ran for her en suite.

After lunchtime, Bulma finally started to feel slightly more like herself again. She sat in her dimly lit office, staring at her laptop. A stack of mail, including a small package, waited for her attention, but she knew she had the whole weekend to get to it before Monday. She opened her laptop and paused. Though she was hungover, she knew she always shut her laptop down completely after every use. Furrowing her brows, she eventually shrugged it off. Exhaustion had been her constant companion lately. Accidents were bound to happen.

She crossed her legs, getting comfortable, and got to work. Bulma wore an old, oversized sweater and a pair of soft shorts, too sad and lazy to bother with real clothes. Thankfully, it was the weekend, and she had the entire building to herself. Even in her hungover state, Bulma was too vain to be caught in these clothes by anyone else.

Rubbing her temples, she glanced at the screen, the deletion process dragging on longer than it should. Gradually, every file she had obtained from hacking the Saiyan servers was disappearing, one by one, into the digital abyss. It was the right thing to do, all things considered. She just didn’t feel much like considering those reasons right now. She wanted to get it over with. And possibly eat an entire bottle of Tylenol.

Keeping these files didn’t feel right, not after everything she’d learned about Vegeta. She had invaded his privacy with good reason, worried about her people’s safety. But now that she knew the truth about his past, she couldn't shake the guilt. If Bulma was one for introspection, which she most certainly was not , she might even admit she felt ashamed.

But shame didn't sit well with her; it rarely translated properly and often morphed into anger. Which, unfortunately for her and anyone who had the misfortune of being in her way, was exactly what was happening right now.

Bulma's anger began to simmer as she went through the deletion process. Each file she deleted should have felt like a small penance, a way to atone for her actions. But still the anger remained, a stubborn flame fueled by her inability to reconcile her guilt. She had seen Vegeta's vulnerabilities, his pain, and his resilience. It had humanized him in a way she hadn't expected.

And what the hell was she supposed to do with that, huh?

After everything she’d said to him, how she behaved everytime they were in the same room? Vegeta was just trying to make the universe a safer place, after everything he’d been through...

Bulma was such an asshole .

She cursed, sighed. Her eyes blurred with fatigue–she had slept terribly the night before. Bulma watched the progress bar inch forward on the latest file. Almost everything was gone now, except for one last message she couldn’t bring herself to delete. 

It was a message from the Emperor of the Saiyan Empire himself, Vegeta III—Prince Vegeta’s father. The email had been sent a few weeks ago, right before the unveiling of the Earth-Saiyan Technology Exchange Program. Bulma's fingers hesitated over the delete key as she re-read the message for what felt like the hundredth time. Her heart pounded with a mix of guilt and curiosity and something else.

Son-

Since House Choy has proven to be-

A knock at the door startled her from her thoughts. Her dad poked his head in, Scratch perched contentedly on his shoulder. "Call your mom," he said, not looking up from his tablet.

Bulma smiled, amused, wondered what her father was so engrossed in. She called her mom.

Panchy answered immediately. “Darling, there’s a handsome Saiyan here to see you!”

“Is it Vegeta?” Bulma blurted before she could help it. Her heart stuttered at the thought.

“Why, do you want it to be him?” her mother said, amusement clear in her voice.

Bulma blushed and groaned. “ No ! Maybe... I don’t know! Gah, Mom ! Just tell me who it is!”

Panchy giggled. “It’s your handsome friend, Kakarot,” Panchy replied. “Something about a martial arts tournament?”

Bulma groaned. She had completely forgotten she had promised Kakarot she’d take him shopping. She wanted to beg off, get a raincheck, but Bulma was nothing if not a woman of her word. She took a deep breath, trying to gather her scattered thoughts and quell the frustration bubbling inside her.

With a final glance at the screen, Bulma resolved to deal with the message later. 

Bulma's eyes widened as she watched Kakarot devour yet another bowl of ramen. Was this the sixth or seventh one? The kitchen and wait staff of the small ramen shop stood by the doors, smiling and chatting. Saiyan appetites would be great for business if more of them dined out , Bulma thought.

Kakarot smiled and waved at their waitress, who nodded happily and put in another order for him. Although he had chosen a table far from the other patrons, Kakarot seemed completely at ease.

“You don’t really seem to mind eating out,” Bulma said without preamble, hoping to steer the conversation toward a question that had been nagging at her.

Kakarot shrugged, making room on the table for his new bowl. “I don’t know, the food just always smells so good! And most humans aren’t exactly out to get me, you know? So I figure, why not?”

The cook must have been prepared for him, as the food arrived in less than ten seconds. Kakarot grinned like a kid in a candy shop and took a massive bite of the chicken. Bulma's mouth formed a small "O" as she watched him eat the entire piece in one go.

“On Vegetasei, it's real important to stick with your clan. Your, I don’t know the word, your– Sipen .”

“Your House,” Bulma supplied, remembering what her mother had said the night before.

Kakarot nodded. “Yeah, that’s it!” He ate the rest of his ramen. "You see, there's always one House or another trying to gain the upper hand, trying to get more political power. It makes it hard to trust just anyone with your supper,” he explained. 

The constant maneuvering and strategic alliances probably created an environment where loyalty was paramount, and every meal shared was an act of trust and unity within one's own House. These are things she already knew, of course. She just needed Kakarot to start talking.

Bulma tried not to grin. Once her hangover had fully dissipated, she had instantly snapped into problem solving mode. That had been about twenty minutes into gi shopping with the Saiyan. (It hadn’t taken long. She’d taken Kakarot where she used to take that bastard, Yamcha.) 

Anyway. Now Bulma had a plan to win Vegeta over and Kakarot was playing along beautifully so far. She bit her bottom lip–she really had the worst poker face.

Kakarot didn’t seem to notice.

“So, what type of government does Vegetasei have, then, exactly?” Bulma asked, pushing her long-forgotten bowl of ramen to the side and leaning forward to rest her head in her hand. “Seems there’s too much fighting to worry about the rest of the galaxy.”

Kakarot slurped up the remaining soup in his bowl and set it down with a satisfied sigh. “We have a duchy system, under the discretion of Emperor Vegeta. Each House rules over its own territory, but the emperor maintains overall control.” He paused, and when Bulma didn’t say anything, he continued. “It’s not uncommon for the lesser Houses to try and start something—attempt to take a Great House’s territory. It’s all about power and influence."

He hesitated before continuing. “After I, er, defeated Frieza, they expected House Bardock to attempt a Macht'captio bellum .”

Bulma recognized the word bellum from Vegeta’s correspondence with the mysterious T. Her stomach fluttered with anxiety, eager to delve into her real questions.

“It doesn’t translate very well,” Kakarot said. “It means something like… a battle to claim power by force.” He chuckled. “It’s kind of a mouthful, huh?”

Bulma's eyebrows shot up. “And the emperor allows that?”

Kakarot nodded, his expression earnest. “If a Lesser House can sustain their rule and bring stability to the region, the emperor will permit it. It’s brutal, but it ensures that only the strongest and most capable rule.”

He signaled the waitress for another bowl of ramen, this time opting for pork. Bulma marveled at his appetite— how could he still be hungry?

“The Emperor was surprised when I declined my right.” He scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “Everyone seemed to expect a lot from me, but I just want to fight, get stronger, and protect my loved ones!”

More food arrived, including a side of steamed buns, a treat, on the house. Kakarot's eyes lit up. He tore into the food with a gusto that made Bulma chuckle despite herself.

“That’s really admirable of you, Kakarot,” she said, and she meant it.

Kakarot stuffed two buns into his mouth at once. Bulma winced, grossed out by his lack of table manners. 

“House Terup was prepared for an attack,” he continued, his words muffled by the food. Kakarot laughed, a carefree sound. “I thought that was pretty silly, seeing as I’m the last of the Bardocks.” He shrugged, but Bulma could sense the weight behind his words, a burden he was reluctant to acknowledge. “But apparently House Choy was going to back me!” He looked incredulous.

Bulma's heart skipped a beat. House Choy . Finally.

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Choy… Why does that name sound familiar?” she mused aloud.

“Oh, they’re one of the Great Houses. Duke Yu broke his daughter Lady Tatsora’s betrothal to– Uh.” Kakarot seemed to catch himself. “Well, he wanted her to marry me .” He scrunched his face up at those words.

Bulma’s mind raced. She tried to play it cool. Her name was Lady Tatsora of House Choy. The duke had broken his daughter’s engagement to the prince in favor of a warrior from a lower class? This was significant. Why would a duke risk losing an alliance with the heir to the Saiyan Empire? Had Frieza's defeat been that significant?

But Bulma didn’t want to raise Kakarot’s suspicions. So she said, “Wow! What an honor,” and left it at that. 

He shrugged, awkwardly changing the subject. "Hey, I've got to get going... I promised Prince Vegeta I'd spar with him."

Bulma perked up at that. "I love sparring!" she said. No, she didn’t. What a liar. "Can I tag along?"

Kakarot grinned. "Sure!"

The Ox King Gym was located in downtown West City. It was a sprawling facility, complete with a central ring for fights which was surrounded by various weights and mats for other training activities. The ring itself was well-worn, the canvas stained from countless bouts. Around the gym, patrons were busy lifting weights, practicing their strikes on punching bags, or stretching on the mats.

In the ring, two Saiyans were locked in a fierce battle, moving with such speed that Bulma struggled to follow their movements. They were both shirtless, their muscular physiques glistening with sweat under the harsh gym lights. After a moment, Bulma could finally tell that one of them was Prince Vegeta. His muscles rippled with every move, a testament to his strength and relentless training.

Vegeta won the match. He walked to his corner, began talking to Nappa.

Bulma found herself staring, unable to look away. There was a raw, primal energy about him that was both intimidating and magnetically attractive. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat louder than the last.

She couldn’t help but drag her eyes down his body. Vegeta's skin was taut over his well-defined biceps, each muscle perfectly sculpted, glistening under the bright lights. Nappa said something to him which made him smirk. His face held a certain rugged handsomeness that was hard to ignore. How is it she had never really noticed before?

Oh .

His powerful legs carried him across the ring toward her. He walked with a grace that belied his bulk, each movement a perfect blend of power and precision. The sheer intensity of his presence made her pulse quicken, her breath catch.

Oh, no .

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Vegeta demanded, standing before her.

His words drew her abruptly from her thoughts.

Bulma tried, she really did, to take the high road, to say something mature that would de-escalate the situation. But Bulma didn’t know how to do that. She didn’t know how to not take the bait. So, while she wished she could say that, when faced with Vegeta's (quite honestly well-deserved) ire she chose to do the right thing and remain polite, to remember her plan...

But that was not at all what happened. Why did he always have to goad her on? And why did she always have to fall for it? And why oh why did she have to get so flustered by him, as if she'd never seen a guy shirtless before? Honestly.

"What does it look like I'm doing, asshole?" Bulma snapped. She indicated to Kakarot. “I’m here to watch a fight.”

Wait. No. 

Shit. That is not what she had planned on saying to him at all.

You could hear a pin drop. Everyone, human and Saiyan alike, stopped whatever they were doing and turned to see how the prince would respond.

The message Bulma couldn’t bring herself to delete:

Son-

Since House Choy has proven to be dishonorable–Deschwilisblüter! It could be worth looking into finding a human woman. What are your thoughts on this?

Attached are some of Dr. Umerik’s preliminary observations of the half-Saiyans. While it is still early days, the initial data is quite remarkable.

---

Father-

Perhaps, but I'm not sure how our people would respond to the half-human heir of a dishonored prince.

---

You are wrong, my son. Duke Yu is to blame. The dishonor is his and his alone.

Saiyans respond to power. If the heir is strong, they will accept him.

---

True enough. I will have Nappa compile a list of suitable human females.

---

What about that Miss Briefs? Is she not of high social standing among her people? You bitch about her enough. Der Mosd süber'flust.

---

That's out of the question.

---

Why?

---

She belongs to another.

---

Is that the only reason? Opportunities multiply as they are seized, boy! Take what you want.

---

She would not have me.

Chapter Text

Vegeta’s eyes blazed with fury. “You’ve got a death wish, Woman,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, a promise of violence.

“Hey, guys, let’s not fight…” Kakarot said.

Bulma felt a pang of regret almost immediately. She didn’t want to fight. Not really. But something about Vegeta always set her off, like a reflex she couldn’t control. He always had something to say, something that pushed her buttons, and Bulma couldn’t ever back down from a challenge. What was wrong with her?

“Why do you always have to be such a prick, huh?” she shot back, the words out before she could stop them. “I’m trying to–trying to…” the words died in her throat. No, that was too generous. The words died before they even fully formed in her mind.

She needed to apologize. But the problem, you see, was that Bulma Briefs did not do apologies. Because Bulma Briefs was never wrong.

For a second she remembered how small, how broken he had been. She winced, hoped no one else noticed. Tried to push the thought from her mind before it took hold. Vegeta did not know she knew that! Could not know, or he’d never forgive her. She would never be able to confess, and besides, if she had not betrayed him and the alliance by spying on him and his people, she never would have known that he was trustworthy. So she could not apologize.

She would not apologize for knowing him. No matter how desperately she wished it had not come at the price of her betrayal.

Fresh wounds on top of old scars. Blood dripping down his small back. Cold, cruel laughter that swirled in her mind like a nightmare. He had only been five. He had only been five.

“You’re trying to what, Woman? Speak.” Vegeta said, bringing her back to the present.

Bulma snapped out of it. “Like I just said, I'm here to watch,” she lied, because she was a coward. “Yamcha is a fighter too, you know.” She could just see her plan going up in smoke now. It was as if her mouth had a mind of its own, determined to dig her into a deeper hole. “Just because we aren’t together anymore doesn’t mean I can’t still enjoy watching a match here and there.” 

She had only brought up Yamcha because she hoped it would bother Vegeta. 

She couldn’t tell if it had worked.

Vegeta’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which held a cold sort of humor. “That’s fascinating. If it’s such an ‘interest’ of yours, why have you never come to watch a match?” He mocked her with his tone. “I’m here more often than your weakling mate is. And I’ve never seen you here before.”

The words hit harder than Bulma expected. She had no idea this was Yamcha’s gym, she had been completely bluffing. How humiliating… That was probably something a good girlfriend would know, wasn’t it? After dating for thirteen years, most people would know that sort of things about their significant other. It’s just that she was always so… busy. Buried in her work, immersed in her projects, and never making the time to engage with Yamcha’s interests. One of his frequent complaints. The realization made her feel sheepish, small.

Her eyes began to tear up, but she quickly blinked them away. Bulma felt exposed, like a nerve laid bare for Vegeta to prod and torment, and she hated it.

“You know damn well we broke up. And I think the better question is, what the hell are you doing here that often? Don’t you have lackeys to boss around, a galaxy to micromanage?” she said, deflecting. 

Nappa, who had been watching the exchange with a growing frown, stepped forward. “Do you wish for me to remove this human from your sight, my Prince?” he asked, his voice almost a growl.

Vegeta’s eyes never left Bulma’s. “That sounds like a great idea,” he said, his lips curling into a cruel smile.

Bulma’s bravado faltered. “Wait, you don’t have to do that,” she said quickly, laughing nervously as she took a step back. “Really, it’s not necessary.”

But in a flash, Nappa was in front of her, his massive form blocking her escape. He grabbed her with ease, lifting her off the ground and tossing her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing. The humiliation burned through her, especially with everyone’s eyes on her.

“Put me down!” she protested, squirming against his hold.

Nappa ignored her, striding toward the exit with long, purposeful steps. Bulma’s face flushed with anger and embarrassment. This was even worse than the last time he had done this. At least then, there had been no audience.

“I was wrong!” Bulma called out, desperation creeping into her voice. “Can we–Can we just talk?” The doors slammed in her face.

Nappa paused just outside the gym, setting her down roughly on the concrete. Bulma stumbled, catching herself against the wall. The ground felt solid under her feet, but her dignity had taken yet another hit.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from Prince Vegeta,” Nappa growled, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.

Bulma snorted, a nervous laugh escaping her lips. "You've got to be kidding me. You sound like a cartoon villain,” she said, trying to regain some semblance of control.

Nappa just stared at her, his expression unchanging. The humor quickly drained from the situation, leaving Bulma feeling small and vulnerable. She wondered what she had done to earn his enmity, why he seemed to hate her so much.

The parallels between this and how she used to feel about Vegeta were not lost on her. She supposed she deserved this.

“I get it,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Just tell him… I’m sorry.” There. She said it.

Nappa’s gaze did not soften. If anything, her words seemed to anger him more. But he said nothing, only glared at her a moment longer, then walked back inside.

“Are you serious,” she muttered to herself. She tried to open the gym doors, but they were locked. “Are you serious!”

Well, I guess I’m leaving then , she thought, reaching in her back pocket for her keys. But nothing was there. She quickly checked all her pockets, looked around her on the concrete. No keys.

“Are you fucking serious?!” She kicked the door and stubbed her toe. The pain was so bad she fell backwards and landed on her ass. Bulma could have sworn she heard laughter from inside. 

She sighed, shielded her eyes from the midday sun, and stared at a lonely cloud for a moment. If this was karma, Bulma was afraid to find out what was next.

That night, Bulma played chess with her dad on the back patio. Her mother sat nearby, enjoying a romance novel. Bulma nursed a beer, just the one, still irritable from having to call a cab to get home. They were mid-game, and Dr. Briefs definitely was winning. Bulma’s mood, already sour, darkened further. She usually beat her dad these days.

The night air was cool, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves. Lanterns cast a soft glow on the board, illuminating the battlefield of black and white squares. Bulma’s eyes narrowed as she studied the board, trying to anticipate her father’s next move. She slid her knight forward, attempting to create a defense, but she knew it was weak.

Dr. Briefs, ever the patient strategist, moved his rook with precision, putting her king under pressure. “So, how was your day, sweetie?” he asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

Bulma huffed, moving her bishop to block the rook. “Long. Annoying.” Her voice was clipped, frustration evident.

Her father’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he moved his queen into an even more dominant position. “You seem a bit preoccupied. Anything you want to talk about?”

Bulma’s fingers drummed on the table as she moved her pawn, trying to open up a path for her queen. “Why did you let Vegeta take the gravity chamber?” she asked, her tone harsher than she intended.

Dr. Briefs paused, considering his next move. He advanced a pawn, further tightening his control of the board. “It wouldn’t have been possible to make it without the prince’s help,” he replied. “It didn’t feel right to tell him no.”

Bulma frowned, her hand hovering over her rook. “But still, it’s our equipment. Why give him free rein?”

Dr. Briefs moved his knight, a calculated maneuver that threatened her remaining defenses. “I got the distinct impression that Vegeta felt unwelcome at Capsule Corp lately. Wasn’t sure why.” He gave Bulma a pointed stare, his gaze penetrating.

Bulma looked away, pretending to find the night sky interesting. The stars seemed unusually bright, but they did little to distract her from the knot of guilt tightening in her chest.

Dr. Briefs leaned back, watching her with a mix of concern and curiosity. Bulma remained lost in thought.

“It’s your move,” he reminded her gently.

Bulma moved her queen, but doubted it would help much. Then she asked, “Where does the prince live?”

Dr. Briefs raised a bushy brow. “Don’t you think you’d know that already if the prince wanted you to know?”

He moved his bishop, strategically placing it to support his advancing pieces.

Bulma shrugged, watching the board. “I have an idea for the gravity chamber I’m sure he’ll like.”

She shifted her knight, attempting to create an offensive.

Dr. Briefs remained unconvinced, leaning back in his chair. “You can tell Vegeta your idea on Monday.”

“But if the gravity chamber is gone, how do you know when he’ll be back?” Bulma countered, frustration edging her voice.

Dr. Briefs sighed, moving his queen into position. “Bulma, there are other projects the prince is involved in and you know that. Come now.”

He made his final move, placing her king in checkmate.

Bulma huffed, seeing her defeat inevitable. She made her last move half-heartedly, and her father’s rook swiftly secured his victory.

Later that night, Bulma lingered outside, the cool air a balm to her restless thoughts. She was about to turn in when she heard footsteps approaching from the shadows. Instinctively, she hurled her empty beer bottle at the intruder. They caught it effortlessly.

Vegeta stepped into the light, his features sharp and striking against the darkness. He wore a dark three-piece suit, the tie the same red shade as his clan’s crest. He looked regal, almost out of place in the casual setting of her backyard. Earth clothes looked good on him. She wondered why he had been so dressed up. 

"Surprisingly good aim," he remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice. 

Bulma was so taken aback by his sudden appearance that she just stared at him for a moment. He was handsome, undeniably so, with an aura of command that made her heart skip a beat.

Determined not to repeat the mistakes of the afternoon, she decided to speak before he could. "What are you doing here?" she asked. “I mean, what brings you… here?” It was nearly midnight.

He seemed a little awkward, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clearly out of his element. “Where is your father?” he asked.

“What?”

Vegeta frowned, his expression darkening. “I received an urgent communication stating that Dr. Briefs needed to talk to me about the gravity chamber.”

Bulma’s brow furrowed in confusion. "At midnight? My dad went to bed about thirty minutes ago.”

Vegeta’s face mirrored her confusion. “That’s not possible. I received the message five minutes ago.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And you’re already here?”

A faint blush crept up Vegeta’s cheeks. He looked away, clearly uncomfortable. Bulma, intrigued by this rare display of vulnerability, reached into the mini fridge beside the grill and grabbed another beer. She knew she had told herself she wasn’t going to drink anymore, but Vegeta’s unexpected appearance warranted an exception. Besides, it was just beer.

She popped the cap and took a sip, trying not to grin. He was pretty cute when he blushed, and she felt an inexplicable urge to make him do it again.

Vegeta sniffed the air when she opened the drink. “What is that?”

“Beer,” she said, holding it up. “Want one?”

She could tell her offer surprised him. For a moment, she thought he might accept.

“No,” he said, turning his nose up a bit. Bulma tried and failed not to roll her eyes.

“Look, maybe my dad meant another time,” Bulma said. “I can tell him you came by, though, if you want?” It felt so weird, being professional and polite with him right now, given the nature of their last two encounters. Weird, but not entirely bad.

Vegeta shook his head, pulled out his phone, and read the message aloud. “Dr. Briefs needs to discuss an urgent matter about the gravity chamber. Please come to Capsule Corp immediately.” His voice was tense, his eyes scanning the message as if trying to decipher a hidden code. He looked up at her, almost accusatory. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Oh, keep your pants on, Vegeta.”

He took a step back, looked affronted.

“Oh for— It’s an expression,” Bulma muttered. “You know, for someone who’s been here for two ye—” She cut herself off, unwilling to let the conversation devolve into a petty fight. That was called character growth, wasn’t it?

“Just–Let me see who the message is from,” Bulma said, holding out her hand.

Vegeta hesitated, then approached the patio. It was raised off the ground by several feet. Instead of taking the steps, he levitated to her height, the movement smooth and almost otherworldly. It reminded Bulma of a scene from a movie from her childhood. She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.

He handed her the phone, his gaze steady and curious. She glanced at the number and groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake—” Mother, she thought venomously.

Bulma sighed, handed him back the phone. “That’s my… mom’s number,” she said begrudgingly.

Vegeta’s expression was incredulous. “Your mother contacted me under false pretenses? She lied to lure me here? To what end?”

Bulma shook her head. “Mom didn’t lie. She must have heard me talking to Dad about the idea I had for the gravity chamber. Since someone took it off the premises—” she gave him a pointed look.

“But she said Dr. Briefs,” Vegeta insisted, frowning.

Bulma met his gaze and then shrugged. “Yeah, alright, maybe she fudged the truth a little bit to get you to come over,” she admitted.

“Why?” he asked, staring at her with such intensity that it made her heart skip a beat.

She shrugged again, feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable. “I don’t know.” There was a pause. “Probably because we… need to talk.”

His expression shifted, suspicion flickering in his eyes.

“Are you sure you don’t want a beer?” she offered.

Vegeta seemed to think for a moment. He nodded slightly.

Bulma checked the outdoor mini-fridge. They were all out, but she had more inside. She grinned. “Wait here, two seconds.” She walked smoothly to the back patio door, but as soon as it shut behind her, she sprinted to the kitchen like a madwoman. She grabbed a beer for Vegeta and another for herself. Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she returned to the patio.

“Here,” she said and handed it to him, pretending she hadn’t just dashed through the house like a maniac.

Vegeta opened it and sniffed it cautiously, then took a tentative sip. His eyes widened and he took another, bigger gulp. Then another and another. Behind him, his tail flickered back and forth lazily, like a cat's. The sight made her smile despite herself.

Chapter Text

"In chess, as in war, the victor is the one who makes the fewest mistakes." – Savielly Tartakower

Bulma opened her beer and took a sip, savoring the rich, slightly bitter taste. She glanced over at Vegeta, noting with mild surprise and amusement that he had nearly finished his entire beer in one go. She remembered his emails to T–Lady Tatsora–about his dislike of sugar. He certainly seemed to appreciate the dark, robust flavor of a stout.

"Come and sit with me," she said, her tone calmer than she felt. She walked back to the table where she had been playing chess with her dad earlier, the remnants of their game still laid out. The wooden patio set was well-worn but sturdy. The chessboard's black and white squares gleamed under the soft glow of the lanterns.

Vegeta continued to levitate on the other side of the patio railing for a moment, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. His gaze was sharp, assessing. Could she blame him?

Then, in a blur of motion faster than she could track, he was seated across from her. Vegeta studied the chessboard, his fingers lightly brushing one of the knights. Each of his movements seemed deliberate, controlled.

"This game, Chess," he began, his voice low and thoughtful, "is very similar to Beherr’atio ."

“Is that a Saiyan game?" she asked. She was captivated by his words, her gaze fixed on him.

Vegeta nodded, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "Yes, the structure is quite similar. But there is less emphasis on defensive strategy, more on aggressive tactics to overwhelm the opponent." He grinned wolfishly at her. “There is no room for mercy.”

Bulma’s heart stuttered painfully. His words, coupled with that grin, sent a shiver down her spine. Her attraction to him was like a spark, igniting a fire that smoldered beneath her skin. 

“What does… beer radio mean?” she stammered, cursing herself for the mangled pronunciation. But in her defense, Vegeta shouldn’t show up looking like a damn snack and the whole ass meal if he wanted her to pay attention to those sorts of details.

Vegeta looked like he had just smelled something horrendous. “ Beherr’atio, ” he corrected, the word sounding harsh and guttural in his deep voice, carrying the unmistakable cadence of his native tongue. Damn. He was so… intense.

“It means domination,” Vegeta said, his voice low and commanding. His presence was overwhelming; every movement was precise and powerful, each word carrying an undeniable weight. His dark eyes, deep and severe, seemed to pierce right through her, making her feel exposed and vulnerable.

She cleared her throat, looked away. The soft glow of the lanterns flickered around them, casting dancing shadows on the chessboard. Bulma fiddled with a loose strand of her hair, trying to distract herself from the tension she felt.

She noticed that he had already finished the beer she gave him. She offered him hers, the words tumbling out before she could stop herself. "I don’t need to drink anymore tonight," she said. I might try to jump you if I do , she thought, but didn’t dare say that out loud.

Vegeta hesitated for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. Bulma caught her faux pas and cringed a bit. Saiyans were particular about sharing food and drink. She knew this. He had hesitated with the first drink she offered, and this one was already open. He'd probably be grossed out knowing she'd already sipped from it. But he took it anyway, his fingers brushing against hers briefly. His touch sent an electric shock through her, making her breath hitch.

He took a sip, and she watched his lips on the rim of the bottle, where hers had been just moments ago. The simple act felt oddly intimate.

Suddenly, she stood up, her chair scraping against the wood of the deck. “I’ll be right back!” she announced, her voice a bit louder than was strictly necessary. 

She practically fled into the house, heading straight for the bathroom on the main floor.

In the bathroom, Bulma stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her long, wavy blue hair framed her flushed face, her cheeks rosy from a mix of desire and complete and total embarrassment. Ugh. She was acting like a teenager with a crush! Bulma had never felt so out of sorts in her entire life.

“Real smooth, Bulma,” she muttered to her reflection.

She glared at herself, gripping the counter tightly. “Get it together,” she hissed fiercely. “You make men nervous, not the other way around. What the hell is wrong with you?” She took a few calming breaths, trying to steady her racing heart.

“Every time you’re in the room that boy can’t stop staring at you." Her mother's words swirled through her mind despite herself.

She scowled at her reflection, splashed a bit of cold water on her face.

After a moment, she fixed her hair, smoothing down the stray strands. She rummaged through the drawer under the sink, found a tube of lipstick, and applied it with determined precision. A small smile tugged at her lips. It was downright silly how much Vegeta had unsettled her, but she wasn’t going to let that continue any longer. She was gorgeous and smarter than most anyone else she had met. Vegeta, prince or not, would be so lucky. Not to mention, he was clearly already attracted to her. 

She smirked at her reflection. It was silly to be so flustered around him. It was time to make the world make sense again.

Bulma walked back out to the patio, her movements more composed. The sway in her hip was ever so slightly more noticeable.

She smiled at him. Vegeta’s gaze followed her, his expression guarded.

Bulma sat down across from him. She was wearing shorts meant for lounging around the house, and the pale skin of her exposed thighs caught the soft light from the lanterns. She caught him staring for a split second longer than was strictly professional. Her smile might have taken on the qualities of a smirk when she noticed that. Bulma leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, her blue eyes bright and curious.

She said, "Teach me how to play."

Vegeta looked at her, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Why?”

Bulma laughed, a light, teasing sound. “Why are you so suspicious?”

Vegeta raised a brow as if to say, ‘You’re one to talk.’ He leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Tell me why. Is this just a ploy, a new tactic to try to find any more nonexistent dirt on my people?”

Bulma shrugged, humor in her eyes. “I guess you’ll never know, huh?”

That remark seemed to catch him off guard. His expression softened for a brief moment, and then he actually laughed. It was a small sound, gone as soon as it began, but still. She had made him laugh.

The feeling that washed over Bulma was indescribable. It was like something had blossomed inside her, a warmth that made her feel lighter for a moment. She savored it, holding onto that fleeting connection.

“ Wäress Siu ein Saiyajin, würt ein Mag'Sipen Ihnen gehernet ,” Vegeta muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Bulma’s eyes sparkled with a playful challenge. “What was that? I’m pretty sure I know two of those words.”

Vegeta’s lips curled into a smirk. “Good for you, Woman. Let me know when you learn the rest.”

“Such an ass,” she said, but there was no derision in the insult this time. “So, are you going to teach me space chess, or are you too scared I’ll kick your butt?”

Vegeta’s reaction to her playful taunting was subtle yet telling. His smirk softened, not as sharp and mocking as usual. He genuinely seemed to enjoy their barbless back and forth. Bulma wondered if this was Vegeta’s version of a smile. She smiled softly at him, and for a moment, they simply sat there, a rare moment of quiet understanding passing between them.

But then, Vegeta’s expression shifted, growing more serious as he remembered himself. The moment was lost.

“Listen well,” he said. “I will only explain this once.” His tone was serious.

Bulma raised both brows and sat up straighter. "Yes, professor," she said, teasing him a bit. But if he caught the joke, it didn't show on his face.

Vegeta picked up the smallest piece, a pawn. Its diminutive size belied its potential. Ein Min'Kriler " he said, his fingers curling around the piece. 

Bulma laughed. “Sounds like Mini Killer,” she said.

Vegeta ignored her, the spoilsport. He continued, unphased: "It moves forward two squares but captures diagonally, and can move sideways one square. When it reaches the last row, it promotes to…"

Bulma watched his hands, strong and scared and calloused, as he set the pawn down. The way his fingers moved with such purpose made her pulse quicken.

His eyes flicked to hers, catching her staring. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks but didn’t look away. The intensity of his gaze made her feel exposed but exhilarated.

He looked away first, never missing a beat as he continued to pick up the pieces and explain them. She thought the subtle clearing of his throat was telling though.

Her eyes were drawn to his lips as he spoke, the way they formed each word with such precision. She struggled to keep her composure, her heart pounding in her chest.

Finally, he held the king piece. " Has ist der Aufceiger ,” he said in Saiyago. “ Der Aufceiger moves two squares in any direction. Once per game, it can swap places with der Späher .”

“The Späher was the Knight, right?” she asked.

He nodded.

“What does Aufceiger mean?” she asked.

“I think the best translation would be… one who has ascended.”

Bulma blinked, the word "ascended" striking a chord. Then it hit her—Project Ascension. The files she had tried but failed to access when she hacked the Saiyan servers.

“Why not call it king or emperor?” she asked lightly.

Vegeta gestured to the queen piece. “Because there is already der Kaiser, ” he deadpanned. “Weren’t you paying attention at all, Woman?”

“Don’t be a dick, I’m just trying to understand.”

Vegeta visibly tensed, looking down at the piece in his hand for a moment. “There is a myth among my people,” he said quietly. “ Der Aufstieg . The Ascended One. The greatest warrior of all Saiyans, a… demi-god among mortals.”

Bulma’s mind whirled, thoughts tumbling over each other. The damaged file she had tried to read floated to the surface: "...Kakarot... rescue mission... saved his people from annihilation... unparalleled strength...Ascension... "

Ascension. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? But if it was just a myth, why had it been mentioned in the files about Kakarot’s involvement? Her eyes widened as another thought occurred to her.

What would the daughter of a duke–a member of a Great House betrothed to the prince–stand to gain by breaking that alliance and attempting to form a new one with Kakarot of the lesser House Bardock?

Unless… There was no way. Could Kakarot have ascended? If Kakarot—sweet, goofy Kakarot—had ascended... then it wasn’t a myth. 

And if it wasn’t a myth… then Vegeta could do it, too. 

Bulma could think of no other reason why House Choy would throw away an alliance with the reigning House Vegeta for someone of a Lesser House like Kakarot.

The thought made her unexpectedly angry. Who did that Tatsora bitch think she was? What a stupid reason to leave him. Vegeta was a fucking catch. But then, having the fiancée out of the way already did sort of make things easier for Bulma.

She remembered something else her mother had said: "I see that boy nearly every evening, training until he drops from exhaustion. A man doesn’t push himself like that without good reason."

Could this be the reason? 

Bulma leaned forward. “Pity it’s just a myth,” she said. “I bet you’d make a great, um, elf stag?”

“You’re doing that on purpose,” Vegeta said, eyes narrowed.

She stuck her tongue out. “Maybe just a little.” A pause. “But I mean it. You work harder than anyone I know. If it’s going to happen to anyone, my Zeni would be on you.” She winked.

Vegeta's eyes flickered, a mix of surprise and something deeper flashing across his face. He tried to hide it, but Bulma could see a hint of vulnerability. The way his fingers clenched around the chess piece he held, the slight softening of his eyes—he seemed overwhelmed by her praise, even if she knew he would never admit it.

Bulma watched him, her heart pounding in her chest. She had never seen him like this, and it stirred something inside her, something warm and tender.

But then he ruined the moment and said, “Are you trying to stall the inevitable with all your insipid chatter, Woman?”

Bulma glared at him. “That’s the last time I ever say anything nice to you!” she sniped. “Fine. You’re on, buddy.”

Vegeta's eyes locked onto hers, intense and unyielding. With deliberate precision, he began fixing the pieces on the chessboard, making sure each one was perfectly centered on its square. His movements were methodical, almost ritualistic, as if setting the stage for a battle. The wooden pieces clicked softly against the board, the sound echoing in the quiet night. Bulma watched, captivated by the contrast between his rough demeanor and the careful attention he gave to the game.

Once the pieces were aligned to his satisfaction, Vegeta gestured for her to go first. "You have white. Make your move."

Bulma's fingers hovered over the pieces for a moment before she confidently moved her pawn forward to E4. She remembered the moves they could make in the Saiyan version, but it was too confusing to refer to them by their Saiyan equivalent. 

Vegeta's eyes narrowed slightly at her move, and he countered with his pawn to E5. The game was on.

They exchanged a few moves, their eyes never leaving the board. Bulma moved her knight to F3, and Vegeta responded by advancing his knight to C6. She could feel the intensity of his focus, the weight of his unspoken challenge.

"Careful now," Vegeta taunted, his voice low and edged with amusement. "You wouldn't want to make a mistake."

Bulma smirked, moving her bishop to C4. "I don't plan on it."

Vegeta's queen slid to D6, a bold move that made her raise an eyebrow. "Confident, are we?" she quipped.

"Always," he replied, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

The game continued, their pieces dancing across the board in a complex ballet of strategy and anticipation. Bulma's mind raced, each move calculated to counter Vegeta's aggressive tactics. When she moved her knight to G5, threatening his queen, she saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

He fell silent, his entire focus shifting to the game. His earlier taunts were replaced by a fierce concentration that made her heart race. She could feel the shift in his demeanor, the seriousness of his intent.

Grinning deviously, Bulma leaned back slightly, savoring the moment. "No mercy," she echoed his words, her voice a soft, triumphant whisper.

Vegeta's gaze snapped to hers, and for a moment, she saw a glimmer of respect in his eyes.

 She swallowed thickly, the intensity of the moment almost overwhelming. But then, with a deft flick of his wrist, Vegeta made a move that dismantled her plan entirely. Her carefully laid strategy lay in ruins, and frustration bubbled up inside her.

Vegeta's smirk widened. "Thought you had me, didn't you?" he gloated, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction.

She pretended he hadn’t said anything. Determined to stall and regain her composure, Bulma struck up a conversation. "Why are you all dressed up tonight, anyway?" she asked, her tone casual as she scrutinized the board, desperately searching for a viable move.

Vegeta's eyes never left the chessboard. "I was at a meeting," he replied curtly, his focus unwavering. "Stop stalling, Woman."

She bit her lip, her mind racing. The difference between chess and the Saiyan version, Beherr'atio , left her with limited options. The only thing she could do was… Continue to stall.

She said, "It's late for a meeting, isn't it?"

Vegeta shrugged, his expression unchanging. "Perhaps for a human. But it was a meeting with a Sayian Clan."

"Oh? Which one?"

"House Choy."

Any remaining plans Bulma had for the match dissolved at those words. A meeting? With House Choy? But that was his ex-fiance’s clan, wasn’t it?

Bulma forced herself to look at the board, though her mind was far from the game. She moved a piece almost mechanically, her thoughts consumed by what Vegeta had just revealed.

Vegeta's eyes flicked up to her, a hint of curiosity in his gaze. "Something wrong?"

Bulma shook her head, trying to mask her unease. "No, nothing. Just...thinking."

He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, his attention returning to the game. As he considered his next move, Bulma's thoughts raced. What could House Choy possibly want with Vegeta now? And why did the thought of him at a meeting with them unsettle her so much?

"Your move," Vegeta said, his voice a low, commanding rumble.

Chapter Text

Bulma stared at the board, her brow furrowing as she struggled to focus. Vegeta's words swirled in her mind, making it hard to concentrate on the game. With a sigh, she moved a pawn forward, knowing it was a sacrificial play.

Vegeta's eyes narrowed, his gaze snapping back to her. His intense scrutiny felt like a physical weight. "What's wrong with you, Woman?" he demanded, his tone sharp and unyielding. "Stop playing around and focus."

He moved his queen with swift precision, placing it strategically to block her next move.

Bulma hesitated, biting her lip. She could feel the tension radiating off him, his patience fraying. "Kakarot mentioned something about… House Choy," she finally admitted.

Vegeta's expression darkened further. "And what exactly did Kakarot tell you?" he asked, his voice edged with tension.

Bulma hesitated, then blurted out, "He mentioned that they had offered to back him in some sort of…battle? But that he declined."

The effect of her words was immediate. Vegeta, who had just picked up his long-abandoned beer glass, crushed the bottle in his bare hand, shards of glass and dark liquid spilling onto the table. His eyes blazed with fury, a tempest barely contained. Astonishingly, no blood seeped from his clenched fist.

"Yes, because he is an imbecile ," Vegeta spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "What sort of fool turns down an opportunity like that? He should have kissed their feet for giving him that chance."

Bulma winced at the intensity of his reaction, the raw emotion on his face. She could see the struggle within him, the conflict of pride and frustration. His usually composed demeanor had cracked.

This was not the reaction she had expected. True, Vegeta had never seemed overly fond of Kakarot, but now he seemed to downright hate him. He was clearly upset that Kakarot hadn't accepted Lady Tatsora’s hand in marriage. Maybe he didn’t want to renew their alliance afterall? But, if not, then why have a meeting tonight with House Choy at all?

The game forgotten, Bulma watched him, her eyes wide with a mix of apprehension and curiosity.

"Vegeta," she said softly, "why does it bother you so much?"

Vegeta's fiery demeanor cooled instantly. He looked away, his jaw tightening. "You wouldn't understand," he muttered.

"Try me," she urged.

"Change the subject," he said, his tone leaving no room for debate.

"Why can't you just tell me?" Bulma pressed, her frustration mounting.

"It doesn’t matter," Vegeta snapped. "Drop it."

Bulma, tired of his evasiveness, leaned forward, her patience worn thin. “Are you or are you not going to marry Lady Tatsora?” she asked bluntly.

Vegeta's reaction was instantaneous. His face turned scarlet, and he spluttered, “What—what? How do you know—?”

Bulma shrugged nonchalantly. “After Kakarot told me about the Great and Lesser Houses, I got curious. The members of nobility are public information. She’s the only unbonded young woman of nobility in her clan, as far as I could tell. It… really wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”

Bulma conveniently left out the fact that she knew Tatsora and Vegeta had been previously betrothed and that Tatsora had left him for Kakarot, who had apparently rejected her, along with her entire clan. They had offered their alliance for some battle Kakarot apparently had the right to wage? But why? Against who? And why did it bother Vegeta so much that Kakarot had refused? 

“I looked up all of the Great Houses, actually. It seems there are no other unbonded Saiyan women in the nobility, aside from Lady Tatsora. Is that… why you wanted my help the other day?”

Bulma had to know if Tatsora had come crawling back. She was certain she would die if he didn’t answer the question.

Vegeta stared at her, shocked for a moment, then slowly smirked and shook his head. He muttered, “ Du ist eine Schirnido unt ein Furchido …”

Bulma glared at him. “You know, if you’re not going to tell me what it means–”

"I said you are terrifying," he cut her off, a hint of admiration in his voice.

Bulma raised an eyebrow and leaned back in her chair, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Terrifying? Coming from the Prince of All Saiyans, I'll take that as a compliment. But that still doesn’t answer my question."

Vegeta's smirk widened, but there was an edge to his expression, a lingering tension in his eyes. "I haven’t dismissed any of my options yet," he began, his voice resolute, "but Tatsora will never be a consideration, even if she were the last woman in the universe."

Bulma's heart leapt at his words, a flutter of unexpected pleasure that she quickly tried to mask. She bit her lip, forcing herself to maintain her composure, though she could feel the warmth spreading across her cheeks. "Good to know," she replied, her tone casual. “So, do you still need… help?” she asked.

Bulma looked at Vegeta across the table, the forgotten chessboard between them. The lanterns cast soft shadows, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and the intensity in his eyes. She was staring, and he was staring back, his gaze unwavering, piercing through her.

“Are you offering your assistance?” he asked, his tone measured, as if testing the waters.

Bulma smiled. “I am.”

He nodded resolutely, a firm decision etched into his features. “Clear your schedule tomorrow afternoon then.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“My father and the High Council... grow impatient," Vegeta began.

The High Council, Bulma had learned during one of her many research sessions, was made up of representatives appointed by the Duke of their respective Great House, as well as representatives from the Lesser Houses, though they held considerably less weight. The Council served as a sort of counterbalance to the Emperor’s power. They were to maintain stability and ensure that the Emperor’s decisions aligned with the best interests of the Saiyan Empire. 

Their influence was considerable, but Bulma wondered how effective such a system was, given all the intra-house alliances that seemed to shift like the wind.

Vegeta continued, his voice low, "My refusal to marry Lady Tatsora hasn't gone unnoticed. The High Council is demanding that I secure a powerful alliance. One that benefits the Saiyan Empire.” 

He paused.

Bulma suddenly remembered the message she had read on the hacked Saiyan servers. " What about that Miss Briefs ?" his father had asked Vegeta. " She’s of high standing among her people, isn’t she?" The memory lingered, a spark of hope and excitement igniting.

Vegeta continued, “They will try to select a mate for me if I do not present them with a suitable… list for their approval."

A suitable list. A list . As soon as it had appeared, the flame was snuffed out.

Bulma tried to hide her disappointment, but the tightness in her chest betrayed her. She knew she had no right to complain; Vegeta was a prince with duties to his people. If this was what he had to do, who was she to get in the way? She nodded, swallowing back her emotions, and asked, "Why me?"

Vegeta wouldn't meet her gaze when he said quietly, “I do not know any other human women.”

Bulma snorted. "Better not tell the prime minister that."

Vegeta pulled a face. “That woman is old enough to be my great-grandmother, I’m certain.”

Bulma wanted to laugh but the ache in her chest remained. 

A fucking list . But maybe… She perked back up. It was so obvious. She’d just make herself #1 on his list. And why not? She was Bulma freaking Briefs, after all.

"So, what are the requirements?" she asked lightly.

"The High Council is split on their exact requirements. Some wish to only consider Earth's nobility. Others prefer an alliance with a government or military official. Some find those positions too transient and would rather I find someone of… what is the term… ‘old money’?”

It was like getting doused with cold water.

The Briefs were one of the wealthiest families in the world, but they were the definition of new money. Her father had amassed his fortune when Bulma was in junior high. Even before that, they had enjoyed a comfortably upper-middle-class lifestyle. She had never wanted for anything. Never really been told no. But now, it seemed she wasn’t even allowed to be an option.

Bulma could have any man in the world, but apparently not Vegeta. She forced a smile, thinking about all the heartache and pain he had endured in his life. She could suck it up. The least she could do was help him find someone. 

Vegeta continued, "I’m sure it will take some time to go through all of your contacts. I will be back tomorrow afternoon, after you have had time to select at least 20 suitable females."

Bulma's jaw dropped. "You want me to have a list of 20 women ready for you by tomorrow afternoon?" She glanced at the time on her phone. It was well past 0200 hours.

Vegeta's eyes narrowed, his gaze unwavering. “Is that going to be a problem?” he asked, his tone laced with challenge.

Bulma rolled her eyes, frustration bubbling up inside her. “Yes, of course that’s going to be a problem! You can’t expect me to–” She stopped mid-sentence, an idea beginning to form in her mind. A sly smile curved her lips as she contemplated her next move.

“I’ll help you out,” she said, her tone shifting to something more playful, “under one condition.”

“State your terms,” Vegeta replied stiffly, his posture rigid, as if bracing himself for whatever she might demand.

Bulma stood up, her movements deliberate and slow, and then sat back down on the edge of the chair beside Vegeta. Their knees touched, the contact sending a jolt of electricity through her. She leaned in closer to him, close enough to feel the heat of his skin. His eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, he looked almost vulnerable. A faint blush spread across his cheeks.

“Screw their requirements. Add me to the list,” she said, her voice low and intimate. “There’s no alliance on Earth more powerful than one with the Briefs–with Capsule Corp.”

Vegeta's reaction was immediate and intense. His usually composed demeanor cracked, his eyes flickering with a mix of surprise, confusion, and something deeper that she couldn't quite place. He looked flustered, an unusual sight for the stoic prince. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out.

Bulma watched him, her heart pounding in her chest. She had never seen him like this before, and the sight of him so unsettled, so off-balance, sent a thrill through her. She waited, her gaze unwavering, wondering if he would rise to her challenge or retreat.

Vegeta swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He didn't say yes, but he didn't say no either. Instead, he simply stared at her, his eyes dark and stormy, as if he were trying to decipher her intentions.

Finally, he spoke, his voice gruff and uncertain. "You… want me to consider you?"

Bulma leaned in closer, her smile growing. "Why not?”

Vegeta seemed to consider this, his gaze flickering between her lips and her eyes. "That would be… acceptable," he said, the words sounding almost foreign to him. It was clear this had thrown him for a loop, his usual composure slipping.

She sat back an grinned at him, a spark of mischief in her eyes. "So, see you at 1200 hours with that list?"

He licked his lips and nodded, still looking slightly dazed by the turn of events.

Chapter Text

"The true tragedy of war is that it uses man's best to do man's worst." — Henry Fosdick

‘What am I doing?’ Bulma thought to herself the next morning as she sat in her home office. The morning light streamed through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and she was still wearing last night’s pajamas, the fabric rumpled and familiar. She sipped her coffee, its rich aroma filling the room as she sat with her feet pulled up under her.

Four hours of sleep had left her feeling like a zombie. Her eyes were gritty, and her head throbbed with every heartbeat. She scrolled through her contacts, compiling information on every eligible woman she could think of.

“No, for real, what the actual fuck am I doing?” she muttered, breaking the silence of the room. She paused, her gaze landing on a name that jumped out at her. Ugh.

"Eliza Harrington," she read aloud, a hint of derision in her tone. The screen filled with Eliza's stats: heiress to the Harrington fortune, a lineage tracing back to the founding of West City. Old money, indeed. Her family had their fingers in every pie from real estate to shipping. Eliza herself was a socialite, her face a regular feature in high society magazines, her charity work meticulously documented to maintain her spotless reputation.

Bulma grimaced, taking another gulp of her coffee. Eliza’s perfectly styled hair and designer dresses felt like a personal affront in the face of Bulma's current disheveled state. She couldn’t help but wonder how someone like Eliza would fare in the presence of Saiyan royalty. She pulled a face. Eliza would probably look stunning standing next to Vegeta. The bitch.

Bulma leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. She took another sip of her coffee. Her eyes skimmed over another name that caught her attention.

"Lian Wyndham," she read, her tone thoughtful. Lian came from one of the oldest families in East City. The Wyndhams' wealth was the stuff of legends, built on a foundation of banking and finance that had withstood the test of time. Lian herself was a quiet, unassuming woman who preferred to stay out of the spotlight. She had a reputation for her kindness and her genuine concern for others. Her bio read like it had been written by the world’s best PR team. But the insufferable truth was that every word was true.

Bulma's fingers hovered over the keyboard as a memory surfaced. A few years ago, during a charity event Bulma had been hosting, she had caught Yamcha flirting with Valerie Kingsley, another socialite. Distraught and unable to focus for an hour, Bulma had felt the event teetering on the edge of disaster. Lian had stepped in, saving the day and giving Bulma time to recover her composure. She had never forgotten Lian’s kindness.

"She'd be a good match," Bulma said reluctantly. She chewed on her lip, a pang of jealousy twisting in her gut. Lian's good nature and level-headedness were qualities Vegeta could benefit from. But the idea of Lian being close to Vegeta, sharing his world, made Bulma's stomach churn. She hesitated, her finger hovering over the 'add' button.

"Maybe later," she muttered, moving on to the next candidate.

Bulma snorted. Speaking of Valerie Kingsley… 

Valerie was the epitome of ostentatious wealth, her family's fortune dating back to old railroad investments and land acquisitions. She was flashy, always in the headlines for one scandal or another. Valerie thrived on attention, her Instagram account a never-ending stream of parties, shopping, and lavish vacations.

Bulma supposed she had a lot in common with Valerie at one point. Hell, we even have Yamcha in common , she thought with a dark laugh.

It’s the type of life Bulma had led herself, in her teens and twenties. Bulma had always been smart, always been involved in her father’s work, but in her younger days, when she had first gotten together with Yamcha, research and work had usually taken a backseat. 

Until strange, obscenely powerful aliens had appeared, and quite understandably, everything had changed.

It was as if all her focus had finally coalesced, igniting an unyielding drive and motivation to work like never before. Nothing else had mattered half as much after that. She had to ensure humanity survived the Saiyans. She had to ensure her world was prepared for whatever came next. 

She supposed that’s part of why Yamcha had such a wandering eye. Not that it was her fault he couldn’t keep it in his pants, but things hadn’t been the same since the arrival of the Saiyans. She had all but ignored their relationship, thinking the world needed her more. And for what?

But, so what if she had always been busy? Yamcha could have tried to talk to her, instead of trying to have his cake and eat it too. It’s not like she had been ignoring him for another man or anything.

She shook her head, trying to focus back on what’s-her-name—Valerie.

Ugh, anyone but Valerie. Bulma shuddered at the thought of the party girl with Vegeta. She could already see the constant drama and the disastrous headlines. Vegeta would blow her to smithereens within fifteen minutes, and then they’d be at war.

"Absolutely not," Bulma said firmly, deleting Valerie's name from the list. Vegeta needed stability and strength, not someone who thrived on chaos.

By the time she got to Catherine Delacroix, the heiress of a vast wine dynasty, Bulma was in such a foul mood she wanted to chuck her computer out the window. So, she decided to hell with it. Bulma set her computer to pick the top 20 candidates for Vegeta based on the parameters that had been so graciously provided by the High Council. Parameters such as: Prestigious lineage, social acumen, physical prowess, cultural adaptability, intelligence… The list went on and on. It made Bulma’s eyes roll into the back of her head.

The screen flickered as the system processed the data. Eventually, it presented a neatly compiled list. 20 of the most “suitable females”, in black and white 12 pt font. 

She glared at the names, scanning them. Bulma landed on the top-ranked candidate. It was someone named Zoya Popova-Chen. Bulma had never heard of her, but her family was insanely powerful. There were a few rumors of an involvement with the Red Ribbon crime syndicate, but nothing that had ever been substantiated. 

What really sealed her fate though, was her looks. Zoya was all legs, with striking silver hair. Unacceptable. Bulma would be the only one with gorgeous, unique hair on this list, thank you very much. She deleted Zoya and added herself. Who cares if the algorithm hadn’t included her. What did a dumb machine, or that insufferable Saiyan High council, know, anyway? 

Bulma burst out of her room, still trying to put an earring in on one side while her cellphone was wedged between her shoulder and head. She sprinted down the stairs, her footsteps echoing loudly through the house. Vegeta, waiting in the living room, stood up, alarmed by her frantic behavior. She dashed past him towards the front door, shouting, “Mom! Mom, are you home? I’m expecting the Prince, can you tell him I’ll be right back? Mrs. Carawan needs–” She stopped abruptly, finally noticing Vegeta.

She stared at him as she said, “I’ll be right there, Mrs. Carawan.” She hung up her phone.

Vegeta was wearing human clothing again: casual jeans and a t-shirt this time. She blinked a few times, her urgency momentarily forgotten. He looked... really good. The way the fabric clung to his muscular frame, the casual attire somehow made him appear even more imposing and attractive. Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt a rush of heat that had nothing to do with her sprint downstairs.

“You’re allowed to go out like that?” Bulma teased, trying to regain her composure. “I thought Saiyans burst into flames if they went out without their armor.”

Vegeta smirked, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Only when we want to make a point.”

Bulma raised an eyebrow, matching his smirk. “So, what’s the point today? Trying to blend in or stand out?”

Vegeta ignored her question, his gaze sweeping over her disheveled appearance. “Why are you in such a rush?”

Bulma fumbled with her earring, finally managing to secure it. “Mrs. Carawan needed help with something, and IT was backed up this morning for some reason, so I was trying to hurry and help her before you got here.”

Vegeta frowned, clearly perplexed. “But that is beneath you. That is why you pay others.”

Bulma shrugged, the gesture casual yet earnest. “Maybe, but we’re a team. We all work for Capsule Corp. And teammates help each other out.”

Vegeta just stared at her, his expression unreadable. She felt a flush creep up her neck under his intense gaze. “What?” she asked, her voice softer.

He shook his head slightly, a flicker of something unspoken passing through his eyes. “It’s nothing,” he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “I will accompany you.”

Bulma waved her hand dismissively. “It’s not necessary.”

Vegeta gave her an almost pained look. “If you leave me alone and your mother stops by to chat one more time, I swear I will...” he trailed off, his jaw tightening.

Bulma’s eyes widened. “You’ll what?”

He leaned in, his voice a low growl. “I’ll consider it an act of war.”

Bulma laughed.

At the labs, Bulma’s secretary greeted her with a slightly sheepish look. "I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience, Ms. Briefs. I don’t know what happened, but I can log in just fine now."

Bulma waved off the apology with a gracious smile. "No problem at all." She turned to Vegeta. "Why don’t we just have that meeting here? We’ve got boardrooms to spare.” 

She wondered how he’d feel about a giant slide show projection of every woman her computer had picked out. He would hate it. She smirked at the thought.

Vegeta gave a curt nod, surveyed his surroundings with a slight frown on his lips. She would wonder if anything was wrong if frowning wasn’t his default state.

Mrs. Carawan interjected with a hint of hesitation. "Ms. Briefs, there's some urgent mail on your desk. NovaTek Industries."

"Thanks, I'll grab it." Under different circumstances, Bulma might have cared more—NovaTek was one of their major clients. But right now, her thoughts were already spinning in a whirlwind, consumed by the absurd demands of the Saiyan High Council. She stole a glance at Vegeta. "Just give me one moment," she said, her voice barely concealing her impatience.

Bulma strode into her office. Stacks of papers cluttered her desk, each demanding her attention. Bulma's gaze swept over them until it landed on two small boxes. One that she had noticed before the weekend, and a new arrival.

The new package caught her eye immediately. It bore no postage markings, only a simple label: "For Bulma Briefs." She did not recognize the bold, heavy writing. Her brow furrowed as she turned it over in her hands. It was the size of a thick book but surprisingly light. The plain exterior offered no clues, just an unsettling anonymity.

A faint buzzing sound reached her ears, growing louder by the second. Puzzled, Bulma realized it was emanating from the package. Her eyes widened in alarm. She gasped, dropping it as if it had burned her, and began to back away. Before she could move far, something small and metallic shot out from the box, hovering mid-air. It turned slowly, almost menacingly, as if orienting itself.

The tiny device was no larger than her hand, sleek and silver with a single red laser 'eye' that locked onto her. Panic surged through her, and she screamed, ducking behind her chair. The device struck the chair with such force that it toppled over, sending Bulma sprawling to the floor.

Scrambling to her feet, she dashed for the door, the relentless buzz of the device close behind. Just as it seemed she could not outrun it, Vegeta appeared, shoving her behind him with a forceful protectiveness.

Standing so close to him, Bulma felt an unexpected rush of emotions. Vegeta’s presence was an iron wall between her and danger. She peeked around his broad shoulder and watched in awe as he snatched the device from the air. With a swift, decisive motion, he snapped it in half, silencing the awful buzzing instantly.

In the quiet that followed, Bulma's heart pounded in her chest. “Thank you,” she said, her voice a bit shaky. 

Vegeta's only response was a stoic nod, his eyes never leaving the now inert pieces of the device in his hands.

Vegeta's expression remained impassive as he examined the remains of the device. He turned it over in his hands with a practiced, almost casual air, as if disarming a potential threat was just another part of his day. The silence that followed was thick with tension, and Bulma’s mind raced, trying to piece together what had just happened.

“What the hell was that?” she asked, her voice tinged with panic. She walked around him, trying to get a better look at the fragments.

Vegeta’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the remnants of the device, his expression darkening with grim recognition. “This was a message,” he said, his voice cold.

Bulma’s breath caught in her throat. Her face paled, eyes flickering from the device to Vegeta, a mixture of shock and fear etched across her features. “What do you mean?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“It’s a K’Rall Infiltrator,” Vegeta replied, his gaze locked on the shattered remains. “A hunting tool from… one of the planets we’ve conquered.”

Bulma’s heart leapt into her throat. “A hunting tool?” she echoed, her voice barely audible. “Are… are you saying that a Saiyan tried to assassinate me?”

Vegeta’s eyes hardened, a steel edge cutting through his stoic demeanor. “It would seem so. The K’Rall were an invasive species, notorious for their precision. These devices are crafted to track and eliminate a specific target. They’re nearly harmless to Saiyans—our skin is too resilient for their mechanisms. But to softer-skinned beings like you…” He paused, his expression darkening further as he regarded the fragments with grim disdain. “Once it makes contact, it tears you apart from the inside out. It’s a twisted form of artistry. A truly horrific way to die.”

Bulma’s eyes widened in terror, her mind reeling as she struggled to grasp the full, brutal truth. 

Vegeta sat the broken device down on her desk and turned to her, his hands closing around her forearms with a grip that was both firm and intimate. “Bulma,” he said, his voice cutting through the tension. Her heart stuttered at the sound of her name on his lips. Had he ever addressed her so directly before? The space between them vanished, charged with an intensity that left her breathless.

“I will not rest until I discover who the traitor is,” he declared, his voice a deep rumble of unyielding resolve. 

Bulma’s gaze drifted to his lips, a dangerous thought taking shape. The urge to lean in and kiss him was almost overwhelming. 

“I will eviscerate anyone who dares to threaten… you…” Vegeta trailed off and fell silent. His eyes locked onto hers. She wondered if he would close the distance, if he was waiting for her to make the first move. He remained where he was, a tension-filled barrier that neither pushed her away nor drew her closer. It was maddening. Bulma couldn’t take it anymore. If he wasn’t going to kiss her, then she would just have to–

Before she could act on the impulse, Mrs. Carawan burst into her office, her exclamation of surprise shattering the moment. “Oh, what was that awful sound!”

In an instant, Vegeta had retreated to the other side of the room. His demeanor shifted back to its usual, unapproachable mask as he instructed her secretary to call for security and demanded to review the CCTV footage. Bulma was too distracted to remind him that he was neither in charge nor did he work there.

She couldn’t shake the certainty that, given another minute alone, they would have kissed.

Chapter Text

Bulma sat at the grand table in Prince Vegeta’s dining hall, staring at Nappa and Raditz who stood opposite her. Their arms were crossed over their chests, Saiyan Frowns (trademark pending) firmly in place.

For their safety, Vegeta had insisted Bulma and her parents stay at his secluded estate, nestled in the countryside about an hour's drive from West City. Her parents were currently strolling through the gardens. But apparently, wherever Bulma went, Thing 1 and Thing 2 were required to follow. She had given up exploring after about 10 minutes of Nappa telling her where she was and was not allowed to go. 

Vegeta had gone to check on the Saiyan armory at Fort Einheitz a few hours ago. Before he left, Bulma had mentioned preferring Kakarot's company to his guards. Vegeta had muttered what sounded suspiciously like, "Over my dead body."

Bulma sighed and looked around. The hall itself showcased Saiyan grandeur, with vaulted ceilings and walls adorned with bloody, ancient battle murals. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to eat a meal next to the painting of a decapitated head, if she was completely honest with herself.

The chandeliers hanging high above them cast a warm, golden glow. The table she was sitting at was crafted from dark, polished stone. It stretched nearly the length of the room and could seat dozens. Its edges were adorned with intricately carved Saiyan symbols. Bulma idly wondered what, if anything, the hieroglyphs documented. 

And why such a big table? Did Vegeta dine with many of his clansmen often, or just on special occasions? She wondered if he’d enjoy dining with a lot of people after so many years with just Nappa and Raditz. Although… they hadn’t been in any of the early recordings she’d seen.

Her mind drifted unwillingly to the image of the young boy from those videos—his small trembling frame, the open wounds and bruises, his tail clutched desperately to his face. She forced herself to push the thought away, unable to bear the sickness that churned in her stomach everytime her mind wandered there.

How long had he been alone? The curiosity burned within her, but she knew better than to voice it. She didn’t really know how Raditz would respond, but Nappa? He didn’t need any additional reasons to dislike her; his disdain for her was quite palpable already. 

It was hard not to be suspicious of him. As soon as Vegeta had left, Nappa flashed an ugly smile and asked if she had ever found her car keys. She hadn’t. Had Nappa seen them fall when he threw her out of the gym? Had he taken them just to mess with her? But Bulma hadn’t give Nappa the satisfaction of replying. 

Nappa truly despised her, but why? Did he hate her enough to want her dead? It didn’t seem likely that killing her would win him any favor with Vegeta, and Nappa seemed to care deeply about the prince’s opinion of him. Despite this, his loathing was unmistakable.

Still, just because he disliked her didn’t mean he was out to get her. And Vegeta seemed to trust Nappa with his life…She sighed. That train of thought was going nowhere.

Bulma drummed her fingers on the table. If she was going to be stuck here, she might as well learn something useful. She looked between Mr. Clean and Rapunzel and settled her attention on Raditz.

“You’re Kakarot’s brother, right?” she asked casually.

“Yes,” Raditz replied, his voice a deep, grudging growl.

Bulma leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharp. “So why are you with House Vegeta instead of House Bardock?”

Raditz sneered, his expression darkening. “House Bardock will always remain Min’Sipan thanks to meun idiot frauter . I wanted to align myself with a powerful house. I’m proud to belong to House Vegeta.”

Nappa tensed at Raditz’s words, though he must have thought that Raditz’s Saiyago was too much for Bulma to fully grasp. It was clear by his cruel smile that Raditz was counting on this, and Bulma was more than willing to play along. She furrowed her brows, feigning confusion.

Unfortunately for them, she had recently had a similar conversation with Kakarot. She knew that Kakarot had turned down the alliance with the Choys and forfeit his right to challenge a Great House. He had effectively consigned House Bardock to obscurity.

But just who had House Choy wanted Kakarot to challenge? Rejection of their offer must have brought trouble; the crowned prince despised him for it, and his own brother had abandoned their clan as a result. Raditz seemed calculating, an opportunist. Bulma understood why he had defected to House Vegeta. Kakarot had ruined their family's chances for power and status, and there was no greater house to align oneself with than the Crown. 

Not for the first time, she wondered why Kakarot had refused.

Bulma knew she was stepping into perilous territory with her next question. It was bold and probing, but their reactions would tell her everything she needed to know. “So… you joined House Vegeta because Kakarot refused House Choy?”

Raditz’s eyes widened in shock. “How did you know that?” he demanded, just as Nappa barked, “Shut up, Raditz.”

Bulma leaned back in her chair, a small, triumphant smile curling at the corners of her lips. She had hit a nerve, and she could almost taste her victory.

Something’s definitely off , she thought. Kakarot had made a mistake—perhaps a cultural faux pas?—by not accepting House Choy’s offer to back him. The main issue would most likely be Kakarot's refusal to claim his right to Macht'captio Bellum –his right to challenge a Great House for their territory, their influence, their power. By not challenging anyone, Kakarot had left a void that affected the balance of power. His refusal had disrupted the natural order of Saiyan politics and left him and his house in disfavor. That’s why Raditz had jumped ship. That’s why the prince hated him.

Her mind raced as she pieced it together. Having no one left in his own House, the Choys must have thought Kakarot ripe for the picking. They must have thought he’d challenge a significant house if he had their support. Which house would have been strategic enough to shake the foundation of Saiyan power dynamics?

She thought of Vegeta explaining the rules to the Saiyan version of chess.

“There is a myth among my people,” Vegeta had said.  “Der Aufstieg. The Ascended One. The greatest warrior of all Saiyans, a… demi-god among mortals.”

Der Aufstieg. The only piece on the board ranked higher than the King. If Kakarot had ascended… 

If Kakarot was der Aufstieg, then it was his honor bound duty to challenge the Royal House. By refusing, Kakarot would have left Prince Vegeta in a state of limbo, unable to fully defend himself… his right to the throne. 

The implications were staggering. Bulma's eyes widened, the weight of the realization settling in. 

She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything else, Nappa’s dark gaze was upon her. “Enough of your questions, woman . You keep prying, and you might just–

“I don’t think you want to finish that thought, Nappa,” Vegeta said. 

Bulma jumped and cursed. How the hell did Vegeta keep sneaking up on her? The doors to the dining hall were heavy solid wood! She really was going to put a bell on him. 

“Leave us,” Vegeta said, dismissing his men. Raditz bowed and left. Nappa lingered a moment. If looks could kill Bulma would have been nothing but a bit of charcoal on the floor. Finally, he left.

“We have a problem,” Vegeta said quietly, his voice tense. He sat down next to her. 

At this point, it was just plain embarrassing how his presence overwhelmed Bulma every time he was near. She felt a flutter in her chest, a thrill at his proximity. His scent, a mix of battle-worn leather and something distinctly masculine, enveloped her. The warmth radiating from his body made her want to melt into him until there was no distinction between where her skin ended and his began.

“The armory is intact. Nothing is missing.” Vegeta said. The heavy uneasiness in his tone drew Bulma’s attention back to the matter at hand. “However, two devices similar to the one that targeted you were marked as faulty and decommissioned a few weeks ago. Something smells ,” he said with a sneer.

Vegeta’s gaze hardened as he added, “The device that attacked you–I examined it. Some of the components… They are not typical to our acquired technology. We streamline everything to fit our standardized systems. These parts... They resemble components we never integrated. Components from Planet Sigma-42…” He said, more to himself, “I don’t know what the natives called it...”

He continued. “Freiza deemed their tech obsolete. We only needed the land. The species that inhabited that world—” His words faltered for just a moment. The room brimmed with unease.

“—That species is extinct. It’s hard to believe that any remnants of their technology would appear here.” 

“But?” Bulma said. “It sounds like there’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”

His voice sounded hollow, like he was reciting a fact he refused to attribute any sort of emotion to. “...I am the one who destroyed all life on Sigma-42,” he said. His eyes met hers, challenging her to respond, to cast the same judgment she, just a week ago, would have been all too happy to deliver.

But she couldn’t. Not anymore. Bulma could not see past the image of the little boy, beaten to a pulp by that vile Zarbon, his body battered as he struggled to stand again, his spirit unbroken despite the pain. Any malice she had felt toward the prince had died, washed away by the revelation of his past. She understood now—his harshness, his drive—it was all a part of surviving a life no child should ever endure. Bulma did not rise to his challenge.

“If there were any survivors…” she said, her voice trailing as her mind raced, “could they have found their way here, to Earth?” There was panic rising in her voice. “For… revenge?”

Bulma reached out, her hand hovering over his arm before she made contact, a silent show of support. She wouldn't judge him—not when she saw the price he paid in his haunted stares and rigid posture.

His gaze shifted, he looked past her. “They would be justified,” he said stoically.

“But is it possible ?” she asked.

She saw him consider her words, saw the brief flicker of uncertainty before he put on his mask once more.

“If it was just this one incident I would say it’s just a coincidence–”

“Oh great, another ‘but’,” Bulma muttered. “That is not good.”

Vegeta gave her an exasperated look. “Do you ever shut up, Woman? I am trying to explain something to you!”

“And I’m trying to process it! Deal with it!” she snapped. Bulma took a deep breath, massaging a finger between her brows for a moment. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Let’s try that again.” She paused. “Please, continue.”

Vegeta rolled his eyes. He looked like he wanted to say something biting but then thought better of it. His jaw clenched as he continued. “Less than a week ago, we had a security breach.”

Bulma’s heart nearly stopped. She had never been happier to be seated, as she was sure her legs would have given out. 

A few days ago, she had hacked into the Saiyan’s servers. It seemed her precautions hadn’t worked—they knew it had happened. Panic surged through her, coiling in her stomach like a serpent. She tried to think straight around the rising panic forming in her mind like a storm cloud, dark and suffocating.

“It’s happened at least three times,” Vegeta said.

That made Bulma pause. Three times? She had only hacked their servers once.

“What makes you think it’s connected with this?” she said.

“Because the first breach involved accessing classified files on advanced weaponry—specifically, the Infiltrator. The intruder seemed to know exactly what to look for.”

Bulma felt a strange mix of relief and unease. He had no idea what she’d done. Still, the realization that she wasn’t the only one who had gotten past their defenses made her frown. “If they knew what to look for, then they must have had inside knowledge.”

Vegeta nodded. He leaned closer. “The intruder left no trace of their identity, but there was something we were able to identify at least once—an energy signature. Faint, but unmistakable. It matches the technology used by Sigma-42.”

Bulma’s breath caught. “Oh, no.”

Vegeta nodded grimly. “It would seem some of them survived.”

Bulma wasn’t sure what to think. “But why target me? What do I have to do with any of this?”

Vegeta’s cheeks flushed slightly. He avoided her gaze. The tough, unyielding prince suddenly seemed almost boyish in his embarrassment. “Probably because they have a grudge against the Saiyans… against me. Perhaps they are trying to compromise our alliance as revenge.”

“But then why would a Saiyan help them?” she asked.

“That I do not know.”

“And why me ?” Bulma said again, her confusion evident. “I mean, I know my work has been important to the alliance, but—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped, the words coming out harsher than intended as he continued to avoid her gaze.

Bulma studied him for a moment, her lips curled into a smirk. “Maybe it’s not just my work that’s important,” she teased, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Perhaps I’m important to a certain someone?” She raised a brow.

Vegeta’s blush deepened, the crimson spreading across his cheeks and up to his ears. “Be quiet, Woman!” he said, clearly flustered. He stood abruptly and began to pace the length of the room, his movements restless.

“How can you make such jokes when there’s just been an attempt on your life?” he demanded, his voice a mixture of frustration and concern. He slipped into Saiyago, ranting under his breath.

Bulma shrugged. She rose to her feet with a casual grace. “Because I’m perfectly safe right now.” She reached out to him, her fingers lightly brushing his arm. He stopped in his tracks, looked from her eyes to her lips. “I’m always safe when I’m with you,” she said.

The contact seemed to anchor him. His eyes, dark and intense, met hers again, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink around them, leaving just the two of them in their own private world. Vegeta stared at her, and the depth of emotion in his gaze nearly made her heart hurt.

“Why did you agree to help me?” he asked quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper. But she could hear the real question beneath his words: Why did you change your mind about me, about my people, after spending so much time despising me?

Bulma swallowed hard, trying to find the right words without revealing too much. She couldn’t very well tell him the truth... that she knew the proud, cold warrior had been tormented as a child, made to do monstrous things. He’d never forgive her if he knew. Never.

The thought made her chest tighten with sadness. She felt conflicted, her heart aching for the pain he had endured, but she knew she had to keep this secret to protect their fragile bond.

"I… realized that my initial impression of you might have been a bit… misguided," she said cautiously. “You’re nothing like Frieza. I’m… I’m sorry I said that.” She practically mumbled, feeling awkward. Bulma could probably count on two hands how many times she’d given a sincere apology. Maybe one. “So, I guess… I wanted to help you because… because I believe in what you’re trying to do.”

Vegeta studied her with the most assessing look she had ever received. He stepped closer, invading her personal space, seemingly searching for something in her eyes. "You’re hiding something," he said finally, his voice low. His eyes narrowed. "Or you’re lying ."

Bulma bristled at the accusation. She took a step back. "Excuse me?" She jutted her chin out defiantly.

Vegeta's expression hardened just a tad, the lines around his eyes tightening. "Don’t play games with me. Last year, you lied about the IESG to expedite our assistance and integration. You manipulated us for a strategic advantage." He paused. "Seems deceit is a favored tactic in your playbook."

She seethed at the insult, but she was caught off guard that he had noticed and never once confronted her about it. "That was to protect my planet! It wasn’t just a lie. You refused to leave and it forced us to work together, to strengthen Earth’s defenses. It worked, didn’t it?" she asserted. She stood firm, unapologetic.

He paused, a trace of grudging respect flickering across his features. "It did. It was clever, strategic—it served your people well.” Vegeta's voice softened slightly. He took a step closer and Bulma instinctively retreated, only to find her back pressing against the cold, unyielding wall. 

“I would have done the same,” he said.

Vegeta’s proximity was overwhelming, his body mere inches from hers, his gaze intense enough to make her heart race. His presence enveloped her. How was it that someone the same height as her could seemingly tower over her? 

The space between them felt charged, every breath felt amplified, every slight movement loaded with potential.

“What are you hiding?” Vegeta's voice was a hushed murmur, his breath a warm caress against her skin. His presence was intoxicating in its intensity. 

Bulma inhaled sharply, her heart hammering against her ribcage as she willed her thoughts to align. Words that could placate him, words that wouldn't shatter the delicate truce they had built—what could she possibly say that he would accept? 

Bulma’s hands found his chest but she didn’t push him away.

“Biteso, ikt mudeb scisen,” he seemed to implore, his eyes burning with an urgency that pierced her defenses. Their proximity crackled with tension. “Ikt koss das nic feragen. Biteso.”

She leaned forward, her breath mingling with hi–

“Should I… Should I come back?” a tentative voice came from the doorway.

Vegeta retreated to the farthest edge of the room, putting as much distance between himself and Bulma as was possible without breaking through the wall at the other end of the great hall. Bulma sighed, her hand raised in a weary greeting.

It was Kakarot, his expression unreadable. In his hand, he held an object that made Bulma’s eyes widen.

“Uh… Raditz said you’d probably wanna see this, Prince Vegeta,” Kakarot said, looking back and forth between the two of them. 

In his hands was another K’rall Infiltrator. 

Chapter Text

"War is the realm of uncertainty; three-quarters of the factors on which action is based are wrapped in a fog of greater or lesser uncertainty." — Carl von Clausewitz

Bulma and Kakarot crowded around Vegeta, who stood at the head of the dining table scrutinizing the weapon Kakarot had brought. His fingers traced the sleek contours of the device.

"It showed up at my door,” Kakarot said with a shrug. She wondered how he had broken it–It had been neatly cut right in two.

Bulma leaned a little closer, trying to get a better look at the small weapon. 

Vegeta took his index finger and methodically cut open the side of the device with a small beam of energy to see inside. She thought of the night he had lit the end of her cigarette like it was nothing.  The energy that a Saiyan body produced was hot enough to disintegrate any matter it touched. Vegeta’s precision and control… Did things to her. 

Bulma cleared her throat, forcing herself to focus. Vegeta placed each part on the table as he extracted it. The pieces were identical to those from the device that had arrived in Bulma’s mail, but something was different. She could see it in the way Vegeta’s brows furrowed slightly, his movements slowing as he delved deeper into the mechanism.

There had been two decommissioned devices from the armory, and it seemed the enemy had found them both. There really was a traitor among them. But who could it be? And why? 

Curiosity flickered across Kakarot's face as he watched Vegeta dissect the device. "So, what is this thing exactly?" Kakarot asked. Vegeta explained, voice almost robotic. 

The light drained from Kakarot’s eyes, his expression tightened with concern. "But… Why target me and Bulma?"

With a precise flick of his wrist, Vegeta disassembled a small section of the weapon, revealing a cluster of intricate components nestled within. His eyes narrowed as he examined the modifications. “This isn’t a typical Infiltrator,” he muttered, the words laced with a cold fury. “They used a Zygra core. That’s powerful enough to obliterate an entire city… maybe even take down a Saiyan.”

A dangerous energy radiated from Vegeta as his anger visibly mounted. His posture tensed, muscles coiled tightly beneath his skin as if he might erupt at any moment.

“Leave us,” he snapped, the command cutting through the air like a blade. Kakarot, sensing the volatile atmosphere, quickly nodded and left the room.

Bulma watched as Vegeta's body stiffened, his jaw clenched so tightly she could almost hear his teeth grinding. His fists gripped the back of the dining chair in front of him with such force that the wood began to crack, splintering under the strain. His eyes were squeezed shut, his breathing heavy and labored, each exhale more ragged than the last.

Unable to bear seeing him like this, Bulma stepped closer, placing a tentative hand on his back. The muscles beneath her fingers were taut, quivering with barely contained rage. “Vegeta,” she asked gently, “are you okay?”

His entire frame shook with anger under her touch, and when he spoke, his voice was laced with a bitterness that sent chills down her spine. “They know,” he said, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. “They fucking know…”

Bulma felt a pang of confusion, her brow furrowing. “What do they know?” she asked, her voice soft, almost hesitant.

Vegeta didn’t answer immediately, his gaze distant as if lost in thought.

Bulma’s mind raced, a sickening realization beginning to take shape. Could this have anything to do with Kakarot being “The Ascended One”? Whoever was out for revenge against Vegeta—if they were aware of the precarious situation between him and Kakarot, the issue of Kakarot refusing to challenge House Vegeta for the right to the throne—they could exploit it, just as they were apparently trying to use her against him.

Her heart sank as a horrifying possibility gripped her. What if, by accessing those classified files herself, she had inadvertently led the enemy straight to the information? The thought sent a chill down her spine. If the hacker had managed to follow her digital footprints, they could now know everything she had uncovered—about Frieza, the PTO, Vegeta’s tormented childhood, and Kakarot’s Ascension. The idea that her actions could have exposed Vegeta’s most guarded secrets to his enemies was unbearable.

“Vegeta,” she said quietly, struggling to keep her voice steady. “You said the first security breach involved files on weaponry. Do you know what else they found?”

Vegeta shook his head, his response curt and clipped. “No. After the first breach, they got… smarter.”

Bulma’s stomach twisted in fear. She hoped she had been careful enough, that she had covered her tracks so well that not even the most skilled hacker could detect her intrusion. If Vegeta hadn’t been able to trace her steps, maybe the hacker hadn’t either. But the uncertainty gnawed at her, a relentless fear that she might have unwittingly opened the door to them.

Determined to make amends, she took a deep breath and met his gaze. “Let me help,” she offered, her voice firm, masking the guilt and fear bubbling beneath the surface. “Let me look at what they did. Maybe I can find something.”

Vegeta remained silent for a moment, his dark eyes locking onto hers, searching for a hint of deceit. Finally, with a reluctant nod, he agreed.

Vegeta led her down the dimly lit hallways of his estate, the evening’s shadows stretching long across the marble floors. She hadn’t realized it was so late. The quiet murmurs of the estate’s night staff were the only sounds that accompanied their footsteps. He stopped at a small, nondescript door. Vegeta keyed in a complex sequence on the panel beside it. The door slid open with a faint hiss, revealing a fortified space lined with sleek, state-of-the-art equipment.

"Impressive," Bulma murmured as she took in the high-tech setup. Vegeta’s estate was apparently full of surprises.

Vegeta’s tone was all business as he replied, “The system is modeled after one we acquired from the Tagoras, in the Nuetis quadrant. It’s meant to be impenetrable.”

Bulma wondered what the fate of the Tagoras had been. She didn’t ask.

Inside, a few Saiyan guards stood at attention, their postures rigid and alert. 

Vegeta sat at one of the workstations, the screen flickering to life under his touch. Bulma followed suit, pulling up a chair beside him.

“We’ve narrowed down the breach points to a few key access terminals,” Vegeta said, his fingers moving swiftly over the keyboard, lines of code and security logs flickering across the screen. Bulma couldn’t help but wonder why a prince would possess such a skill, but the answer surfaced almost immediately. A prince might not need such expertise, but someone who had served under Frieza—someone who had to stay indispensable and always a step ahead to survive—would have learned every skill imaginable.

“Let me see if I can trace the source.” Bulma leaned forward, her eyes scanning the data rapidly. Relief washed over her as she realized this wasn’t her handiwork. Her security breach must have flown under the radar.

“This code… it’s clever, but there’s a pattern here,” she murmured. Her fingers became a blur as she navigated through the layers of security. After several minutes, she finally cracked it, revealing a list of potential suspects.

“It’s narrowed down the list,” she said, her voice tinged with both satisfaction and concern. “But… every single one of them…” She furrowed her brow. “They all work at Fort Einheitz.”

Vegeta frowned, his eyes darkening as he reviewed the names. "This makes no sense. I trust all of these men with my life," he muttered, a hard edge to his voice.

Bulma’s gaze shifted to the screen, her heart skipping a beat when she saw a familiar name. "Bardock Kakarot..." she whispered, the name hanging heavily in the air between them. “But… Why would he…”

Vegeta seemed to grasp the unspoken question hanging between them. When he spoke, his voice carried a note of reluctant respect. “There’s no way it’s Kakarot. He might be a fool, but he’s no traitor." He worked his jaw a bit. "When I announced my expedition to Earth, he pledged his House to me.” The words were laced with a strange blend of admiration and bitterness.

Kakarot had pledged his House to Vegeta’s, a gesture that by Saiyan law and tradition, was all wrong. Kakarot should have challenged Vegeta for his right to the throne. It was his duty, his obligation, to test the strength of the crown and claim it if he was the stronger warrior. By refusing to challenge Vegeta and instead offering his loyalty, Kakarot had thrown the delicate balance of Saiyan politics into chaos. 

Yet, despite the breach of tradition, Vegeta had accepted Kakarot’s offer. It was a decision that spoke to the complex relationship between duty, pride, and survival—a decision that carried with it a heavy burden.

A burden that Vegeta bore alone.

Bulma could see it now, another side of him that she hadn’t noticed before. He was capable of setting his own grievances aside for the greater good of his people. It was a rare quality in anyone, but especially among Saiyans, who were known for their pride and stubbornness.

Her heart swelled with an unexpected warmth, realizing just how much Vegeta was willing to endure to protect those he cared about—even if he wouldn’t admit it out loud.

“You’re going to make a great king one day,” Bulma said softly, her voice carrying a quiet reverence that surprised even her.

Vegeta’s eyes shifted from the screen to meet hers, their knees brushing lightly beneath the desk. In that brief moment, she saw the internal struggle flicker in his gaze again. The battle between what he wanted to say and what he was willing to admit.

Gently, she placed her hand on his knee, the warmth of his skin seeping through the fabric and sending a subtle thrill up her arm. He didn’t pull away.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice soft, almost a whisper.

For a heartbeat, she wondered if he might finally let her in, but before he could respond, a guard stepped into the room, moving quietly to the Saiyan stationed nearest the door. "Your Highness, the human woman’s parents are inquiring about dinner," he announced, his voice breaking the fragile moment between them.

Vegeta’s jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration passing over his features. “We will be there momentarily,” he said, his tone clipped.

Bulma found herself back in the dining hall, trying not to make eye contact with the decapitated head on the mural opposite her.

“Your gardens are simply exquisite!” Panchy said to Vegeta. Raditz held a chair out for her, but he looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else. Dr. Briefs settled beside his wife as she persisted  at making conversation. He looked across the table to Bulma. "How are you holding up, dear?" he asked, gentle and sincere.

She was prepared to voice her frustration at having been interrupted, but the subtle tension in her mother's too-bright chatter and her father's furrowed brow halted her words. They were still shaken after the events of the day, but trying not to show it. She didn’t want to burden them further. Bulma softened, assuring her father with a gentle, "I'm feeling much better now.” As she spoke, her gaze flickering to Vegeta, who stood stiffly at the head of the table.

"And are they all native to Vegetasei?" Panchy continued.

Vegeta’s patience seemed to be fraying by the second. He corrected her with a curt, "No, they are from various worlds," through clenched teeth.

Panchy’s eyes glittered with curiosity and delight. "Oh, how marvelous! I would love to visit another planet one day!" Her voice brimmed with excitement at the idea.

Vegeta, however, was far less enthused, his response came as a derisive snort. "Good luck with that. Most of those worlds don’t exist anymore," he muttered, his tone dripping with disdain.

"Oh, my, how mysterious," Panchy murmured, unfazed by his brusqueness.

Vegeta's glare briefly flared with a silent scream. Bulma had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. 

Salvation arrived in the form of dinner. Servants began to flood the room with an array of dishes. The spread was a carnivore’s delight, featuring an assortment of meats accompanied by a small battalion of side dishes. Bulma recognized one dish in particular—a hearty serving of pork marinated in a sweet and spicy sauce that she’d enjoyed during the dinner with her father’s Saiyan friend, Corjeto.

Vegeta, adopting a formal tone that didn’t quite mask his annoyance, stiffly invited everyone to enjoy their meal. 

“Will you be… dining elsewhere, Prince Vegeta?” Bulma asked with a small grin. She knew asking him in front of her parents would make him uncomfortable and she couldn’t resist. 

Raditz scoffed, as if the answer was obvious. That earned him a sharp glare from both Bulma and Vegeta. You stay the fuck out of this, Bulma thought. Raditz promptly straightened up under their combined scrutiny.

Vegeta seemed to waver for a moment, his eyes flicking between Bulma and her parents, before practically growling, “We will reconvene... later this evening,” and excusing himself and his men. Bulma smirked, muttered “coward” under her breath. 

As soon as the door shut behind them, Bulma could hear Vegeta’s muffled rebukes filtered through the solid oak. She snorted. It served Raditz right. Bulma didn’t know Raditz anywhere near as well as Kakarot, but she was starting to get the distinct impression he found humans beneath him. 

Everyone ate in silence. Bulma, lost in thought, idly pushed food around her plate. 

Dr. Briefs' voice broke the silence. "Are you sure you don’t want to notify the authorities about today?” he questioned. 

Bulma shook her head. Given the sensitivity of the situation, she and Vegeta had agreed to find the culprits on their own. She could have sworn she saw a hint of tension ease from Vegeta’s shoulders when she suggested they handle it themselves. But what choice did they have? If anyone else got involved, it could easily escalate into a full-scale war.

They might still end up in that situation anyway, especially if Vegeta uncovered what she had done. And if she really was the reason whoever was targeting Vegeta had gotten hold of that crucial information about Kakarot…

"Prince Vegeta has it under control," she said, forcing herself to stay focused, trying not to let her mind spiral into worst-case scenarios.

"Bulma, are you quite sure?" Dr. Briefs asked, his voice tinged with uncharacteristic frustration. The events of the day had clearly taken their toll on him.

"Dad, please, trust my judgment," she said.

Dr. Briefs hesitated, clearly unconvinced, but he knew his daughter well enough to recognize that arguing with her would be pointless.

Bulma’s attention drifted to the mural on the wall opposite her. It depicted ancient Saiyan warriors locked in a fierce battle. Her eyes lingered on the figure of the beheaded man, his face twisted in eternal agony. 

What if she had somehow led the enemy to gather information on Vegeta? Bulma shivered, praying her own fate would be kinder if he ever uncovered the truth.

Chapter Text

After dinner, the thought of waiting for Vegeta to summon her felt unbearable. Impatience gnawed at her, and Bulma decided to take matters into her own hands. She wandered through the endless endless hallways of Vegeta's estate. It was a vast labyrinth of corridors that twisted and turned as their ceilings stretched toward infinity. It was enough to make Bulma feel small and out of place. Something she wasn’t used to. 

The walls were lined with tapestries, their woven threads depicting scenes of battle and victory, stories of Saiyan conquests that felt almost suffocating in their intensity. Warriors with fierce eyes and bloodied hands, victorious over fallen enemies. How had their culture survived so long with such bloodshed? She looked straight ahead. The scenes were giving her the creeps.

After aimlessly wandering, Bulma finally gave up and enlisted the help of one of the many guards stationed throughout. Tall and stern, with a face carved from stone, the guard informed her that the prince was currently out. When she pressed for more information, he simply stared ahead, as if he couldn’t hear her.

Frustrated, Bulma flipped him the bird and stormed off, the sound of her footsteps echoing through the empty halls.

She found her way outside, the cool night air a welcome relief. Darkness had settled over the estate like a velvet shroud. The gardens stretched out before her, a lush expanse filled with plants she had never seen before—exotic flowers with petals that shimmered like gemstones, trees with leaves that glowed faintly in the moonlight, and vines that twisted and curled around ancient statues. She vaguely wondered how the Saiyans had gotten them to flourish on Earth.

Bulma wandered aimlessly, her thoughts a tangled mess, until a low voice caught her attention.

Up ahead, just beyond a tall hedge, she heard a male voice, deep and low, speaking quietly. Curiosity piqued, Bulma approached cautiously, careful to keep her footsteps silent as she peeked around the hedge.

There stood Nappa, his massive arms crossed over his chest. He was talking to someone on the communicator in his ear. She couldn’t make out his expression, but the tension in his posture was unmistakable. Whoever he was talking to, it was serious.

“Prince Vegeta left a few minutes ago,” Nappa said, his voice gruff. “You know what he’s after, and you know how to end all this. So end it already, or I will.”

Bulma gasped, a sharp intake of breath that she quickly tried to stifle. But it was too late. Nappa’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the area.

Bulma backed away, heart pounding in her chest. She turned to flee, but her foot caught on a root, sending her sprawling to the ground. She scrambled to her feet, her palms stinging, and took off running.

Nappa spotted her and gave chase, his heavy footsteps pounding the earth behind her. For someone so large, he was much faster than she had expected. He closed the distance between them in seconds. Before she could escape the gardens, his hand shot out, grabbing her. 

“What are you doing out here?” he demanded, his grip tight and unyielding.

Bulma struggled against him, glaring up at his brutish face. “Let go of me!” she shouted. “I was just going for a walk!”

“You should have stayed away from the prince when I told you to,” Nappa growled, his eyes narrowing with menace.

Bulma’s eyes flashed with defiance. “Maybe you should mind your own damn business,” she shot back.

Nappa’s face twisted in anger, but before he could respond, Raditz appeared from the shadows, his usual smirk playing on his lips. “Careful, Nappa,” he said, his tone mocking. “I’m not sure the prince will take too kindly to you manhandling his favorite human... again.”

Nappa glowered at Raditz, but his grip on Bulma loosened. “Butt out,” he snarled, releasing her.

Raditz ignored him, his attention shifting to Bulma. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, curiosity piqued.

“I was looking for the prince,” she replied, brushing dirt from her clothes.

Raditz’s smirk widened. “He’s probably with my brother,” he said, his tone casual. Nappa’s scowl deepened at the mention of Kakarot, but Raditz just shrugged. “With the look I saw on the prince’s face, I’d bet all the money in the universe that he’s at Fort Einheitz right now.”

Bulma frowned in confusion. “Why?” she asked. “What’s at Fort Einheitz?”

Raditz rolled his eyes, clearly exasperated by her ignorance. “Oh, for crying out loud. Do I have to spell it out for you? He’s confronting Kakarot.”

Bulma’s face paled. “Why?” she asked, her voice shaking. “He doesn’t think Kakarot had anything to do with the attack, does he? Prince Vegeta said he trusted him.” Worry gnawed at her, a cold knot forming in her stomach.

Raditz raised an eyebrow, his expression taunting. “You mean there’s something you don’t know? Huh . How about that.”

Nappa growled at Raditz. “Enough,” he barked. He glared at Bulma. “Go back to your quarters, human.”

Bulma wasn’t in the habit of following orders, but it would be better for her if they didn’t suspect anything. With a final glare, she turned on her heel and headed back inside. 

She grabbed her phone from her room and called Kakarot twice. He didn’t answer. She cursed, wished she had Vegeta’s number.

If she couldn’t reach him, then she would just have to go to him.

She walked up to one of the many guards stationed around the estate. "Excuse me, where's the library?" she asked. “Just wanna do a little light reading before bed.”

The guard didn’t even blink, his eyes remaining fixed on some distant point ahead. Irritation bubbled up inside her. Typical, she thought. Rolling her eyes, she turned on her heel and headed down the hall, her footsteps echoing softly against the marble floors.

Luck seemed to favor her as she reached a staircase. Just off to the side, she spotted a patio door, partially obscured by heavy drapes. She glanced around, ensuring no one was watching, before slipping outside.

The patio was nestled against the side of the house. Ambient lighting bathed the property in a soft, ethereal glow, casting long shadows that danced across the carefully manicured lawns. To her left, the garage doors were open, inviting her in.

An idea formed in her mind before she was even fully aware. 

Bulma grinned. The garage was huge, with sleek, polished floors that reflected the low light. Saiyans had no need for vehicles, but apparently that hadn't stopped Vegeta from collecting a few toys for fun. Rows of vehicles lined the space, each more impressive than the last. Vegeta’s taste in cars was exactly what she’d expected—high-end sports cars, their designs aggressive and uncompromising, built for speed and power. The sleek lines of a black coupe caught her eye, its body low to the ground, as if it were poised to leap forward at any moment. Beside it, a deep crimson roadster gleamed under the lights, its angular design a perfect match for Vegeta’s sharp, no-nonsense demeanor.

But it was the motorbike that really captured her attention. Sleek and menacing, it was a machine built for speed. Precision and control. The matte black finish gave it a stealthy, almost predatory look. Bulma grinned as she approached it, her fingers itching to touch the cool metal. 

It was perfect–exactly what she needed. Bikes were much easier than cars.

The garage was well-stocked, and she didn’t have to look far for the tools she required. Bulma swung her leg over the bike, settled into the seat. It had been years since she’d last ridden one, but the familiarity of it came rushing back. Her hands moved instinctively, searching for the wires beneath the dashboard. She found them quickly and, with a practiced ease, hotwired the bike.

A triumphant laugh bubbled up from her chest as the engine purred, the vibration thrumming  through her legs. Without wasting another moment, she revved the engine and rode the bike out of the garage. The estate sprawled out before her, surrounded by open fields and a dense forest. The only access to the main road was heavily guarded, and she wasn’t about to risk that route. Her only option was the forest, a wild stretch of trees that she hoped would lead her to the main road.

She had to get to Vegeta.

As she sped toward the treeline, the reality of what she’d just done hit her like a cold wave. She’d hotwired a fucking motorbike. And she hadn’t ridden one in over a decade. "Fuck," she muttered to herself, the wind whipping past her face. But she didn’t have a choice. She had to get to Vegeta before he did something stupid, before everything spiraled out of control.

The shouts of guards in the distance jolted her out of her thoughts. She glanced over her shoulder, her heart skipping a beat as she spotted a few Saiyan guards running toward her, their voices carrying across the night air. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she hissed, leaning forward and urging the bike to go faster.

The forest loomed ahead, a wall of darkness that seemed both inviting and menacing. She could hear the sound of the guards taking off into the sky, their pursuit relentless. But as she veered into the forest, the trees closed in around her, shielding her from their sight.

The trees weren’t as crowded as she’d feared, and she navigated the bike through the underbrush with relative ease. She turned on her brights and kept her focus, heading north and praying it was the right direction. The thrill of the chase sent adrenaline coursing through her veins, but a part of her couldn’t shake the nagging fear that she might be lost, that she wasn’t going the right way at all, but she was too nervous to stop and check on her phone just yet.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally dared to slow down, turned off the headlights and came to a stop. She listened intently, the night eerily silent except for the distant rustle of leaves. Voices drifted through the trees, but they were faint, far off. Her heart pounded in her chest as she waited, tense and alert. Then, just as she was beginning to think she might be in the clear, she spotted lights up ahead, the glow cutting through the darkness. 

She nearly screamed until she realized they were headlights. It was just a car. She had found the road. 

A grin spread across Bulma's face as she turned the lights back on and guided the bike toward the road. Relief washed over her as she hit the pavement, the smooth surface a welcome change from the rough terrain. She looked up at the stars, double checked her location on her phone. She sighed with relief–she knew exactly where she was. Bulma sped off toward Fort Einheitz, the night air whipping through her hair.

Bulma parked outside the massive structure looming like a fortress against the night sky. This was the Saiyan military training facility, designed to withstand the force of Saiyan power. It was the only place where two Saiyan warriors could at least come close to unleashing their full strength without fear of causing mass destruction. She hoped they were here.

Bulma dismounted the bike and hurried inside, her heart pounding with anticipation. She wasn’t entirely sure where to go now that she was here, but she wasn’t about to let that stop her. A few soldiers gave her curious glances as she passed, so she slowed her pace, smoothing her hair and straightening her clothes. She approached one of the soldiers, her voice steady as she asked, "Have you seen Prince Vegeta or Commander Kakakrot?"

The soldier nodded, his expression respectful. "They’re in Arena Three."

Bulma thanked him and hurried toward the arena. As she approached the metal doors, the Saiyan soldiers guarding them stepped forward, blocking her path. "The prince doesn’t wish to be disturbed," one of them said, his tone firm.

Bulma drew herself up to her full height, her eyes flashing with determination. "Do you know who I am?" she demanded.

The soldiers exchanged glances but didn’t move.

Bulma pulled out her ID, flashing it in front of them. " Move or I’ll have you both removed from my planet," she barked, her voice carrying the authority she knew they couldn’t ignore.

Reluctantly, the soldiers stepped aside, allowing her to pass. She pushed open the heavy doors and stepped into the control room. The large window overlooking the training arena was blacked out, the sound muted. 

A young soldier sat at the control panel, her hands trembling nervously.

"Get out," Bulma ordered, her voice sharp. The soldier scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping over herself as she bolted for the door.

Bulma approached the panel, flipping on the visual and sound. The room was immediately filled with the deafening roar of energy blasts, the sickening thud of fists connecting with flesh. She winced at the sound, quickly turned the volume down.

On the screen, Vegeta and Kakarot were locked in a brutal fight, their movements a blur of speed and power. Vegeta fought with a wild, desperate fury, his strikes filled with a barely contained rage. Kakarot, on the other hand, seemed almost restrained, his movements calculated, as if he was holding back.

Bulma’s heart ached as she watched Vegeta. He was out of control, driven by something deeper than anger. It was as if he was fighting not just Kakarot, but himself, his own demons. The sight of him like this, so raw and vulnerable, twisted something inside her.

Vegeta unleashed a powerful energy beam, slamming Kakarot into the ground. He landed on top of him, pinning him down, his face contorted with rage. "Say it, gods damn you!" he screamed, his voice hoarse. " Say it!"

Kakarot coughed, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He shook his head weakly. "I can’t. I won’t," he gasped. "Prince Vegeta, I don’t want—"

But before he could finish, Vegeta’s fist crashed into his face, again and again. "Fuck you!" Vegeta roared, his voice breaking. "You fucking—" His words devolved into a guttural growl, slipping into Saiyago.

Kakarot found leverage and kicked Vegeta off him with such force that Vegeta was sent flying into the opposite wall. Kakarot stood up, wiping the blood from his mouth. He walked toward Vegeta, who was struggling to catch his breath. Blood poured from a gash on his brow, his right eye already swollen shut.

Vegeta tried to stand, but his body betrayed him, his strength faltering. Kakarot extended a hand to him, a gesture of peace, of understanding. But Vegeta swatted it away angrily, refusing the offer.

Kakarot placed his fist over his heart and said, "Ikt sim der trulis Dievus des Mag'Sipen Vegeta."

Vegeta’s response was bitter, his voice laced with pain. "Es wurd keino Mag'Sipen Vegeta erben senn Siu mict nocht herausfvocas, siu stulkopf!"

Bulma quickly pulled up the live transcription program on the computer. The translation was just a few seconds behind the real-time conversation. Her eyes skimmed the words, her heart sinking as she realized what they were saying.

ID: 01BK01 | House Bardock | Commander Kakarot: I am the loyal servant of the Great House Vegeta.

ID: 00VV02 | House Vegeta | Prince Vegeta: There will be no Great House of Vegeta if you don’t challenge me.

Kakarot’s shoulders slumped, the weight of the statement hanging between them. He tried to reason with Vegeta, his tone calm, almost pleading, but Vegeta’s words were sharp, cutting through any hope of reconciliation.

Bulma read the translation as it came in:

Commander Kakarot: I have no desire to fight you or your house for the crown. Why can't we approach the High Council? Change how things are done?

Prince Vegeta: That’s impossible! Are you blind? There’s already been an attempt on Miss Brief’s life—on yours. How do you not see what’s happening?

Kakarot fell silent, his gaze locked onto Vegeta’s, searching for answers in the prince’s stormy expression. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost hesitant. The translator stalled, before finally delivering the words:

Commander Kakarot:  What do you mean?

Vegeta let out a bitter, humorless laugh that echoed through the chamber, sending a chill down Bulma’s spine. He muttered something under his breath, too low for the translator to pick up, before wiping the blood from his mouth. His next words, when they came, were sharp and cold, cutting through the tense silence. Bulma felt the tension of waiting for the translation, the two seconds stretched into an eternity.

Prince Vegeta: Most Houses wanted to absorb Earth into the empire, not form an Alliance. You know that. Even the Coalition sees this planet as a liability. If this alliance falls apart—House Vegeta is finished. The High Council wants me to fail. They’re just waiting for the chance to put one of their own in power.

Bulma gasped, looked back up at the view screen.

Vegeta had paused, his gaze dropping to the ground as if the weight of his words bore down on him. Bulma held her breath, waiting for him to continue.

Kakarot broke the silence, voice filled with frustration.

Commander Kakarot: Why does it have to be this way?

Vegeta’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing with fury. He snarled, his words laced with both pride and bitterness.

Prince Vegeta: Because we are Saiyan! Power and pride are the very essence of our being. Our strength is what defines us, what keeps us from being crushed under the heel of those who would see us destroyed. To show weakness, to allow change, is to invite ruin. We are warriors—our power is our right, our legacy. Without it, we are nothing. 

Kakarot tried to speak up, but Vegeta cut him off so quickly the computer could not decipher what Kakarot had said.

Prince Vegeta: Without your challenge, I am nothing.

Commander Kakarot: I refused to fight you because I believe in you, Prince Vegeta. I believe you are the leader our people need. I might be stronger than you, but I would never be fit to rule.

Vegeta snorted. 

Prince Vegeta: I should give you credit for being self aware, but I won’t. Your refusal will be our downfall.

Kakarot frowned. 

Commander Kakarot: What… What should I do?

Vegeta scoffed, then tensed for a moment, looking around. Bulma yelped when he switched to Earth Standard. “If you’re not going to challenge me then get the fuck out. You are of no use to me.”

Vegeta knew they were being watched. His gaze locked onto one of the cameras, and for a chilling moment, it felt as if he were staring directly at her. Instinctively, Bulma stepped back from the monitor, her heart racing.

She had glimpsed into Vegeta's private world before, moments that weren’t meant for her eyes. But this time, she had been caught.

Damn.

Without breaking eye contact with the camera, Vegeta ordered Kakarot to leave again. Kakarot hesitated, awkwardly rubbing the back of his head before finally complying. When he stepped into the control room and saw Bulma, his eyes widened in surprise.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Bulma raised her brows, taking in Kakarot's battered face. He looked much worse in person. Like he’d been through hell. “Are you okay?” she asked, concern lacing her voice.

Kakarot chuckled, dismissing her worry with a wave of his hand. “This? This is nothing. I’m fine.”

His gaze shifted to the screen, where Vegeta still stood. Kakarot frowned. “Oh, you… saw that, huh?”

Bulma nodded, her cheeks flushing.

Kakarot looked to the transcript, their conversation translated into Standard. He grimaced. “Prince Vegeta… he’s a private guy. Maybe don’t mention the translation.”

She blushed deeper and nodded again.

“But maybe,” Kakarot added, his voice softer, “Maybe you could go talk to him? He could really use a friend right now and I’m the last person he wants to talk to,” he said sadly. With that, Kakarot left.

Bulma turned back to the screen, where Vegeta was glaring, arms crossed over his chest. His voice crackled through the speaker, sharp and impatient. “Well?” he said. “Are you going to come in or not?”

Chapter Text

"Grand strategy is the alignment of potentially unlimited aspirations with necessarily limited capabilities."  — John Lewis Gaddis

Bulma stepped into the arena, her breath catching as the sheer scale of the place hit her. The chamber was vast and cavernous, the kind of space that seemed to stretch endlessly upward into shadows. The walls were lit by harsh overhead lights that cast stark, unforgiving shadows. Scorch marks marred the stone floor, and deep gouges scarred the walls where fists and bodies had collided with metal. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat and blood. A battlefield frozen in time.

Vegeta stood at the center, his body a tense coil of barely restrained fury. His stance was rigid, his muscles taut, like a predator ready to pounce. He watched her approach with his one good eye, the other swollen shut from the brutal beating he had taken. The anger radiating from him was almost tangible, a dark energy that crackled in the air between them. Bulma had seen Vegeta angry before, but this… this was different. 

As she drew closer, Bulma gasped at the sight of him. Up close, the extent of his injuries was far worse than she had imagined. His shirt hung in tatters, barely clinging to his bruised and bloodied frame. Dark, angry bruises marred his skin, and deep cuts criss crossed his body, some still oozing blood. He had not worn any armor.

Slowly, tentatively, she lifted a trembling hand and gently touched the side of Vegeta’s face, careful to avoid the worst of his injuries. His skin was hot under her fingers, his breath ragged and uneven.

Vegeta’s good eye fluttered shut at her touch, and for a moment, the anger seemed to melt away, replaced by something softer, something vulnerable that she rarely glimpsed in him. He leaned into her hand, the tension in his body easing slightly. But only slightly. The storm within him had not fully passed.

“Why?” she asked softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Vegeta’s expression hardened, the softness vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. His guard snapped back into place, like a steel door slamming shut. He pulled away from her touch, his gaze turning cold and distant. “I’ve already told you, Woman. It is not something a human would understand,” he said gruffly, his tone final.

Bulma frowned, refusing to be shut out. “That’s not fair, Vegeta. You haven’t even told me what’s going on.”

His gaze flashed with frustration. “That’s rich coming from you,” he snapped.

Bulma winced but she knew she deserved it. The weight of all the secrets between them pressed down on her—the things she couldn’t tell him she knew, the things he refused to share. The chasm between them had only widened.

A rueful smile tugged at her lips. “We make quite the pair, don’t we?”

For a long moment, Vegeta simply stared at her, as if wrestling with something deep within himself.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It was you,” he said quietly, taking a step back. His good eye, bruised and swollen from the fight with Kakarot, bore into her with a scrutiny that sent chills down her spine.

Bulma froze at the accusation, her breath catching.

“The security breach—the one we couldn’t account for. It was you,” Vegeta repeated, his voice low, raw, as if he couldn’t quite settle on an emotion.

“Do you deny it?” he asked. Bulma searched his face. His expression remained unreadable. Her heart lurched, but she knew lying would only make things worse.

Images flashed through her mind—the tapestries depicting the gruesome fates of House Vegeta’s enemies, the grim murals in Vegeta’s dining hall. The decapitated head, lifeless eyes staring right at her.

No, she was being paranoid. Earth’s government wouldn’t allow harm to come to her—that would be a breach of the accord, an act of war.

But… she had already breached the accord herself.

Article 4, Section 7 of the Earth-Saiyan Accord loomed large in her mind: “Any act of espionage, including but not limited to unauthorized access to secure data, shall be considered a direct breach of the accord and an act of aggression.”

She had broken the very rule she was banking on using in her defense. And he knew. Fuck.

Vegeta laughed, but it was an odd, cold sound, devoid of any real humor. “Nappa tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen,” he said. His voice was distant now, as if he were somewhere else.

“Nappa?” Bulma scoffed, her voice trembling with anger. “Fucking Nappa? You shouldn’t trust him! I overhe—”

“Be silent, Earth woman,” Vegeta cut her off so sharply it was more a snarl than speech. Without another glance in her direction, he moved past her, his steps measured and deliberate, as if he were trying to hold onto the last vestiges of control. As he reached the door, he paused, his back still turned to her. “I must... think. Stay here,” Vegeta ordered coldly. “I’ll send for Kakarot.”

“Vegeta, please, don’t—”

He slammed the door behind him with a force that rattled the walls. The sound echoed through the empty arena, a final, resounding note of rejection.

“Fucking jerk!” Bulma shouted, her frustration boiling over. She stomped over to the door, determined to follow him, to give him a piece of her mind. But the door was locked.

Bulma howled in anger. In a fit of rage, she pounded on the door with her fists. “Dammit, Vegeta! Let me out!”

After what felt like an eternity, the door creaked open. Bulma looked up, her heart hammering in her chest, and saw the concerned face of Kakarot.

His brows knitted together as he took in Bulma’s expression. “What’s going on, Bulma? Prince Vegeta just broke down my door! Why was he even more upset than when I left?”

Bulma’s panic and anxiety surged, coming to a head all at once. Her composure shattered, and she burst into tears, her body shaking with the force of her sobs. Kakarot blinked in surprise, clearly out of his depth. After a moment’s hesitation, he squatted next to her and awkwardly patted her on the head.

Bulma swatted his hand away, but the flood of emotions crashing within her was overwhelming, threatening to pull her under. She couldn’t process it all, so she did what she always did—transmuted it into anger. Anger, at least, she could handle.

Kakarot’s voice was gentle, concerned. “Bulma, what’s wrong?”

She sniffled, wiping at her face with trembling hands. She’d just have to freak out about her fate later. Right now, she needed to focus. 

“Never mind that,” Bulma said, her words sharp despite how shaky she felt. “I need you to look into Nappa for me.”

Kakarot’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Nappa?” he repeated, sitting down next to her.

Bulma explained what she had overheard in the gardens, her voice slipping into a mocking impression of Nappa’s gruff tone. “‘You know what he’s after, end it already, or I will.’”

Kakarot chuckled sheepishly. “Bulma, that was me he called.”

Bulma’s eyes widened in shock. “What? Why?”

Kakarot fidgeted with the hem of his pajama shirt. He must have been getting ready for bed when Vegeta apparently broke his door down and made him come back. “Well, you saw what happened today, right?” he asked.

Bulma nodded, her mind racing with questions, waiting for him to continue.

“And… remember the talk we had, when we went out for ramen?”

She nodded again.

Kakarot hesitated, then began to awkwardly explain how, in their culture, there was a myth—

“Der Aufstieg . The Ascended One,” Bulma interrupted. She knew it was rude, but she didn’t have the time or bandwidth to care right now.

Kakarot looked surprised but nodded.

“Vegeta told me,” she explained, her voice tight.

“Then you know that Saiyan tradition demands I challenge House Vegeta for the crown,” he said. His expression darkened.

“Why won’t you?” she asked, her voice soft.

Kakarot looked away, his gaze distant, haunted. “Because it would be a fight to the death,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Bulma gasped. 

The prince carried the weight of his heritage with unyielding resolve; the customs of his people were etched into his very soul. To betray his duty would be unthinkable. Vegeta knew he was likely to die but demanded the challenge regardless. 

He would never be at peace until Kakarot challenged him and one of them lay dead.

And then there was Kakarot himself… “Earlier, you spoke so highly of the prince, even though he's always so rude to you...” she said, remembering his declaration: I am the loyal servant of House Vegeta.

Kakarot shrugged, a small, remorseful smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t blame him. He’s in a pretty crummy position,” he said. Kakarot’s expression was resolute. “But there’s no doubt in my mind that Prince Vegeta is the leader our people need.”

Bulma’s eyes softened as she looked at him. “What makes you say that?”

“Because without Prince Vegeta’s help, I never would have ascended. I never would have become powerful enough to defeat Frieza.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. Bulma couldn’t really imagine Vegeta going out of his way for someone else’s glory. That hardly seemed on brand for the arrogant prince. 

“Seriously?” she asked.

Kakarot’s expression grew somber, his eyes darkening as memories surfaced. 

“We were both there. For that final battle on Vegetasei,” Kakarot began, his voice thickening with emotion. “When Frieza’s men slaughtered my entire clan…” His face tightened, the pain of loss etched into every line. “Prince Vegeta was the first to see what was happening to me… I was devastated, desperate… he knew before I did. He distracted Frieza, bought me the time I needed to ascend.”

Kakarot locked eyes with Bulma, fierce determination burning within him. “Without the prince, I’d be dead. We’d all be dead.”

Bulma stared at him, processing the revelation. Vegeta had sacrificed his own interests for the greater good of the Saiyan race, ensuring Kakarot’s ascension even though it wasn’t in his personal best interest. Yet tradition demanded that Kakarot challenge Vegeta, to the death, to take his place. The cruel irony of it all made her chest ache. It wasn’t fair. 

Bulma’s thoughts churned with conflicting emotions. Vegeta had done what was right for his people. So then, why?

“Why did he say the council wants him to fail?” she asked. “Because you haven’t challenged him?”

Kakarot hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “That’s… part of it,” he admitted.

Bulma’s frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

Kakarot shifted uneasily, reluctant to delve deeper. “If some members of the Council had their way, the Prince would have been stripped of his rank the moment the war with Frieza ended. They believe his leadership has been compromised—that his time under Frieza has… damaged him.”

Anger flared within Bulma at the hypocrisy of it all. How could they think that of Vegeta after everything he’d done for their race? It infuriated her that they would undermine him like this.

Something else still didn’t add up. “If they’re so determined to see House Vegeta fall… then why would the Council push him to find a human mate?” Weren’t the half-human offspring supposed to be stronger than their Saiyan parents? “Why give House Vegeta such an advantage?”

Kakarot shrugged. “Maybe they’re hedging their bets. According to Raditz, Representative Kurei suggested some Red Robin lady, and he told me some of the other representatives were in favor of her as well. ‘Course Raditz is kind of a gossip, so you never know with him.”

Bulma paused, trying to recall what she knew about Representative Kurei. Kurei represented House Terup, one of the more influential lesser houses. They controlled a small portion of the northern territories on Vegetasei and were notorious for dealing in tech—most of it foreign, ancient, or forbidden by both the Saiyan Empire and the Galactic Coalition. After Frieza’s fall, the Terups had become a bit more transparent about the tech they had hoarded during his reign, but Bulma doubted they would ever revealed the full extent of their reserves.

A thought struck her like lightning. The assassination attempt on her and Kakarot had involved tech from Sigma-42, a planet the Saiyans had purged under Freiza’s orders. But what if it wasn’t Sigma-42 survivors behind the attack? Vegeta suspected revenge, but the real threat might be closer to home. She needed to review the purging roster for that planet, to see which Saiyans, besides Vegeta, were involved in its destruction. He had said he'd been the one to destroy the planet, but he couldn't have been the only one assigned to pillage and study it.

If she was right, then this was about power and control, not revenge, and House Terup was playing a long and dangerous game.

It finally dawned on Bulma what else Kakarot had just said.

Her mouth fell open, ever so slightly. “I'm sorry, the Red who?”

“You know, that shady group with their hands in just about everything. Crime, tech, you name it. They’re bad news.”

“You mean the Red Ribbon Syndicate?” she asked. She thinks of the list of women she had compiled for Vegeta. One of them had been rumored to have ties with the organization. Could that be the same woman the Council wanted?

“Yeah, that’s it!” Kakarot said.

The knot of tension in her chest tightened. Bulma needed to speak to Vegeta. Immediately. 

Even if he hated her now.

“Thanks for the lift,” she murmured, casually resting a hand on the rough bark of the tree beside her. In truth, she needed the support—her legs were trembling so violently that she feared they might give way. Kakarot had flown her back to Vegeta’s estate, a dizzying, heart-pounding experience she never wanted to repeat.

“No problem,” Kakarot replied with a grin before launching himself into the sky. She watched as he disappeared, his silhouette shrinking into the vast, star-strewn night. It was breathtaking, but still… Never again.

For a moment, Bulma remained where she was, clinging to the tree until she could trust her legs again. When she finally felt stable, she pushed away from the trunk and walked toward the gazebo at the garden’s edge. It overlooked the sprawling expanse of Vegeta’s estate, a serene sanctuary far from the city’s artificial lights. The stars above scattered like shimmering dust across the velvet sky. Bulma leaned against the gazebo’s railing, drawing in the sweet, heavy scent of alien blooms mingling with the night air. 

Despite the tranquil beauty surrounding her, her thoughts were anything but peaceful. She needed to talk to Vegeta, but she had to gather her thoughts first.

She would kill for a smoke right about now.

The sound of footsteps interrupted her thoughts. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was—Vegeta, likely glaring at her with that infuriatingly intense stare that always made her feel like he could see straight through her.

Bulma rolled her eyes, stubbornly refused to turn around. Let him stand there, she thought, struggling to suppress the anxiety bubbling up inside her. There was so much she needed to tell him, to confess, but she was suddenly too afraid to turn around.

“I do not wish to fight with you,” Vegeta said quietly, his voice softened by something she couldn’t quite place—something that made her chest tighten with a mix of fear and longing.

Really? That little fit you threw sort of said otherwise, she thought. But Bulma didn’t say anything outloud, her eyes fixed on the stars above as if they held the answers she so desperately needed. After a moment, she sighed, turning her head just enough to glance at him over her shoulder. “I don’t either,” Bulma said.

Suddenly, she felt his presence at her back, his large hands planting firmly on the railing on either side of her. His body was close, so close she could feel his warmth, but they weren’t quite touching. The proximity sent her heart racing, her skin tingling with an intoxicating mix of fear and desire.

“Whatever you’ve discovered,” he said, his voice low, a gentle rasp. “You must tell me.”

Her breath hitched. “I’m no—”

But before she could finish, he pressed his face into the crook of her neck, his breath searing hot against her skin. “Please,” he whispered, his voice raw, edged with desperation. “You have no idea… whatever you know, someone will eventually discover what it is, and that it was you. The council, the traitor… anyone.”

The intensity of his plea, the crack in his usually unyielding demeanor, left Bulma reeling. He wasn’t angry, even though he clearly knew she had done something? Why had he left like that then? She was confused, uncertain of how to feel. He wasn’t just asking—he was begging, something she never imagined Vegeta capable of.

Bulma sighed, the weight of her guilt and confusion pressing down on her as she leaned into him, the words slipping from her lips almost unconsciously. “Vegeta… I can’t…” her voice cracked a bit. He would hate her if he knew. He would hate her and she couldn’t bear it.

“Was it my trial?” he guessed. “Kakarot’s… reports?” Vegeta leaned in closer, so close that his nose and lips grazed her skin. "I need to know what information has been compromised. I need to know what could be used against us.” 

A soft gasp escaped her, an involuntary surrender to the overwhelming sensations flooding her senses. She tilted her head, granting him full access to the vulnerable curve of her throat, unable to resist the pull of his presence.

His breath traced a heated path along her skin, words in Saiyago rolling out, deep and resonant against her pulse. His hands, no longer gripping the cold railing, moved with purpose, sliding to her waist, his touch commanding. Possessive. “I will protect you,” he whispered. “Bei meinen viben, ick schuro es. But you have to be honest with me.”

He turned her slowly, and as she faced him, her breath caught in her throat. In the dim light, Vegeta’s features were carved with desperation, his eyes burning with an intensity that made her knees tremble. The space between them was barely more than a whisper, the air charged, a heartbeat away from collision.

“Mei Liebor,” he murmured, his voice like a soft rasp. Then in a firmer tone, “Tell me.”

Bulma sighed, her resolve crumbling. “Fine… yes, it was your trial,” she lied, hating herself for the deceit. But she couldn’t bring herself to tell this proud man that she had witnessed the most harrowing moments of his life—not with everything else weighing on him right now. She couldn’t bear to see the way he’d look at her if he knew. “The files were damaged so badly, I couldn’t… see much,” she added, her gaze dropping to the ground. “But… I know you were just a kid when you joined Frieza’s ranks… and I know you didn’t always have... a choice.”

“I don’t need your fucking pity,” Vegeta growled, his voice a low rumble. His face was a storm of conflicting emotions—pride, pain, and something else, something raw and untamed.

Bulma met his gaze. If she couldn’t be honest about what she knew, she could at least offer this truth: “Vegeta, a lesser man would have been crushed under Freiza's rule. The last thing I feel for you is pity. You are the strongest person I know.”

Before she could fully grasp what was happening, he was on her, his lips crashing against hers with a fierce urgency that stole her breath. His body pressed against hers as if afraid she might disappear. His grip tightened, fingers digging into her skin as if anchoring himself to reality—to her.

Bulma gasped softly against his mouth, her lips parting in response. The sound seemed to unlock something within him, and he groaned, deepening the kiss with a hunger that set her pulse racing.

His hands moved with purpose, one tangling in her hair, the other curling possessively around her waist. Each kiss was a claim, a wordless declaration of something neither of them dared to speak aloud.

With a swift, fluid motion, he lifted her effortlessly into his arms. Bulma’s arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, her heart pounding. Vegeta launched them into the air. Bulma protested, but they had already landed on his balcony by the time she even noticed. He set her down, but his hold remained firm, as if the very act of letting go would be unbearable.

Vegeta walked her backward into his room, his lips never leaving hers. She could feel the barely restrained power in every movement, the controlled strength in the way he held her, and it sent a thrill through her veins. 

With a flick of his tail, Vegeta shut the door to his balcony. The sharp sound echoed through the stillness of the night.

Chapter Text

It was a few hours before dawn. Vegeta and Bulma lay together in his massive bed, the silence between them a comfortable lull. Bulma’s eyes were closed, her breathing steady, while Vegeta was propped up on his side, his fingers tracing idle, almost absentminded patterns on her arm, her chest. She could feel the warmth of him beside her, a steady heat that made her feel safe.

A small smile played on her lips. If someone had told her a month ago that she’d be lying in bed with the Saiyan prince, of all people, she would have laughed in their face. Probably told them to get their head checked. But now, as impossible as it seemed, she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Everything about this was unexpected—the way his touch, so light and deliberate, calmed her. How his presence, even without words, seemed to ground her in a way nothing else had before. She'd always seen him as this untouchable figure, impenetrable, all ego and anger. And yet here they were.

Bulma opened her eyes, rolling onto her side to face him. She found Vegeta watching her with that same intensity he always had, though there was something different now—something softer in the edges of his stare, as though he were letting his guard down, just for a moment. His tail curled around her leg beneath the sheets, and she let herself get lost in the sensations of his touch, in the quiet peace. The possessive coil of his tail was oddly comforting, as if he were anchoring her to this moment, to him.

She shifted slightly, her voice soft as she asked, "What are you doing awake?"

Vegeta didn’t answer. Instead, he continued touching her, his fingertips tracing slow circles on her skin. The way he looked at her, as if he were memorizing every detail, made her feel exposed and vulnerable, but in the best possible way—like she was the only thing in the world that mattered to him at that moment.

Her lips quirked into a playful smirk as she broke the silence. "Is this your way of asking for round three?"

That seemed to catch him off guard. Vegeta’s hand stilled, his dark eyes widening ever so slightly before narrowing in a mix of surprise and indignation. “W-what? You vulgar creature,” he sputtered, his usual sharp tone faltering.

Bulma’s smirk deepened, mischief dancing in her eyes. "Vulgar, huh?" she teased, her voice dropping to a low, sultry purr. “Well, what do you plan on doing about that?”

Without waiting for an answer, she pushed herself up, sliding on top of him with a graceful ease that made his breath hitch. He didn’t resist. His eyes followed her every movement, watching her as she straddled him, her thighs pressing against his hips, her body fitting against his perfectly.

The soft glow of the moonlight filtered in through the partially open curtains, casting silver streaks across the bed. It bathed Vegeta’s features in shadow and light, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw, the strong curve of his cheekbones. 

Bulma leaned over him, letting her fingers trail lightly across his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath her fingertips. Her gaze wandered over his body, taking in the scars that marked his skin—some faded with time, others still fresh. Each one told a story of the countless battles he had fought, the pain he had endured. But here, in the quiet intimacy of the night, away from the chaos of politics, the looming threats, and the weight of both their worlds, he was just Vegeta. Not the prince, not the warrior, but the man who lay beneath her, his heart beating strong and steady beneath her palm.

He watched her carefully, his dark eyes following her every move, but there was something unspoken in his gaze. Something that told her he was letting her in, even if he didn’t know how to say it.

Bulma’s breath hitched as his hand reached up, his touch surprisingly gentle as his knuckles brushed softly against her cheek. His touch was hesitant, almost as if he were afraid to break the moment. It was so uncharacteristically delicate for someone like him—like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed this, if he was allowed her.

The tenderness in his gesture made her heart ache in a way she hadn’t expected. His pride, his arrogance—they were still there, simmering just beneath the surface—but right now, they were softened by something more vulnerable. Something fragile. In the quiet stillness of the moment, she could see beyond the impenetrable walls he’d built around himself, catching glimpses of the man underneath—the man who had endured so much, fought for so long, and yet still carried the weight of his past like an iron chain around his neck.

Her breath caught in her throat, her heart swelling as the realization hit her like a wave crashing against the shore. She was in love with him.

It wasn’t just the way he touched her now, or the way his eyes lingered on her as if she were the only thing that mattered. It was everything about him—the way he carried the weight of an entire people on his shoulders, the strength that defined him even when he was at his most vulnerable. 

She loved the broken pieces of him just as much as the powerful warrior he was. His flaws, his contradictions, his stubborn pride—all of it made her heart ache for him in ways she hadn’t known were possible.

She felt the subtle shift in him immediately. His body tensed slightly, a ripple of resistance passing through him. The easy intimacy they had shared just moments ago receded like a tide pulling back from the shore.

“What about them?” he asked, his voice hardened.

Bulma hesitated, biting her lip. She knew this was dangerous territory, that asking about Saiyan politics was like walking a razor’s edge, but she couldn’t let it go. “Kakarot told me they’ve been pushing for that woman from the Red Ribbon Syndicate to be your match.” She kept her voice calm, steady, though inside her heart was racing. “Is that why you asked me to make that list? Were you trying to find someone else the High Council might accept?”

The tension in the room thickened, and for a long moment, Vegeta said nothing. His face remained unreadable, the guarded mask slipping back into place. She could feel him pulling away from her emotionally, the distance growing between them again, even though he hadn't moved an inch.

Finally, he sighed, the sound heavy with frustration. “Yes,” he admitted quietly, his voice carrying the weight of his defiance. “I refuse to bow to their demands.”

His words were clipped, as if he didn’t want to give too much away. Vegeta looked away from her, his gaze shifting to some distant point beyond the room, as though contemplating forces much larger than either of them. The dim light cast sharp shadows across his features, making him look even more distant.

Bulma frowned, studying his profile. “What will the Council do if you don’t accept their choice?” she asked, her voice soft but insistent. She needed to understand what he was up against, what kind of pressure was weighing on him.

His gaze darkened, the familiar edge of pride and bitterness creeping back into his expression. He began to sit up, forcing Bulma to sit back on the bed.

“My only option is to keep training,” he said, his voice laced with determination. “To Ascend. If I do, their opinions will matter less and less to our people.”

“I... have a theory,” she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “About House Terup.”

Vegeta’s eyes flickered toward her at the mention of the Lesser House, narrowing slightly as he listened. His body grew even more still, and she could feel the change in the air between them. 

“Those infiltrators,” Bulma continued, her voice steady but edged with urgency, “the one that attacked Kakarot… it was powered by a Zygra Core, wasn’t it? That’s Vossar-Delta tech. Highly dangerous, banned on Earth and most planets in the Coalition for a reason. But House Terup—” she paused, studying his face, trying to gauge if he was even open to hearing her out. “They’ve been hoarding illegal tech for years, long before Frieza’s fall, right? So what would stop them from obtaining something like that?”

Vegeta’s face hardened. He stood up front he bed, putting even more distance between them.

"Terup?” he scoffed, his voice laced with disbelief. “They’re a Lesser house, nothing more than opportunistic thieves. They don’t have the power or influence to move against me directly.”

Bulma frowned, her frustration bubbling up. "You can’t seriously believe that. Maybe they don’t have the raw power to take on House Vegeta, but with tech like that? They could be using it to level the playing field.”

Vegeta’s brow furrowed, his expression one of outright dismissal. “You’re overthinking it, Woman. Terup’s not a threat to me. They wouldn’t dare move against the Crown. Their ambitions are small—petty.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Hoarding tech might give them an edge in the underworld, but they’re not players in the real game of power.”

Bulma’s eyes narrowed. “That’s exactly what makes them dangerous. You’re not seeing it because you’re too focused on the obvious threats. They don’t need to challenge you directly if they can get control of the tech, get control of the situation.”

“They’re scavengers,” Vegeta cut her off sharply, his pride flaring. “Not conquerors. Their reach doesn’t extend beyond petty crime and black market deals. You’re giving them far too much credit.”

Bulma’s frustration deepened, but she held back her retort. She knew Vegeta well enough by now to understand that his pride was clouding his judgment. He couldn’t see past his own view of Saiyan politics—the hierarchy, the strength of Houses, the idea that Lesser Houses like Terup could never rise above their station unless through sheer brute force. He was blind to the subtleties of manipulation and backdoor deals that Terup could be exploiting.

“Fine,” Bulma said, trying to stay calm. “But just because you don’t think they’re a direct threat doesn’t mean they aren’t working behind the scenes. They could very well be involved with the Red Ribbon Syndicate, couldn’t they? What if they’re positioning themselves to use illegal tech to gain an advantage—not just over you but over the entire alliance with Earth?” Her anger rose at that thought. “Don’t you care what that could mean for me? For my people?”

Vegeta’s eyes flashed, but he shook his head. “Your fears are unfounded. If they’re making moves, it’s small-time. They wouldn’t risk the wrath of the High Council, let alone my House. They know better.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she pressed.

Vegeta exhaled sharply, seemed to grow tired of the subject. “Let it go, Woman. I have bigger problems. House Terup isn’t worth my time.”

Bulma stared at him, her frustration rising to a boil. She had laid out the facts as clearly as she could, but his pride, his fucking stubborn pride, wouldn’t let him consider the possibility that a Lesser House could maneuver around him in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

“There are rumors they’re dealing with the Red Ribbon Crime Syndicate, Vegeta,” she said, her voice clipped, hoping he would at least consider the possibility. “Even if they’re small-time, it’s still a risk.”

Vegeta turned his back to her. He walked toward the balcony, dismissing her concerns with an air of finality. “House Terup is insignificant. I have real threats to worry about.”

“And what about the Council?” she called after him. “Why are they pushing you to pick a match like that, someone potentially connected to Terup?”

Vegeta stopped mid-step, his back still to her. For a moment, Bulma thought her words had finally gotten through, but when he turned to face her, his eyes were cold and filled with frustration.

"You think I don’t see it?" he snapped, his voice low and biting. "You think I’m blind to their game? I am fully aware that the Council wants me mated to someone they can control–to solidify this alliance with Earth, make me more… 'manageable'."

Bulma sat up in bed, her jaw set. She crossed her arms over her chest, not backing down for anything. Who was he to speak to her like that?  But her pulse quickened at the raw edge in his tone. 

Vegeta's eyes narrowed, his lip curling into a sneer. "But Terup?" he spat. "You really think the other Great Houses would allow a minor house like Terup to climb above their station? That they could rise and threaten me? That’s laughable. The Council has its own ambitions, but backing Terup? They know better."

He crossed his arms, his expression hardening further, almost daring her to challenge him. "No. The Council pushes for stability, not to elevate some insignificant House. You’re overestimating Terup and underestimating how little patience the Great Houses have for anyone stepping out of line."

Bulma seethed with frustration. He was too proud to see the danger looming right in front of him. "Then why her?" she shot back, unable to contain herself. "Why push you to marry someone tied to Earth’s most powerful criminal syndicate?"

Vegeta let out a sharp breath, clearly irritated that she was still pushing. "You forget, Woman, Saiyans don’t concern themselves with petty things like human morality. We see no difference between Earth’s criminals and its politicians. They’re all the same—just tools to be used. But don’t think for a second that anyone will control me."

“Whatever,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m not dropping it.”

"This conversation is over," he snapped. He turned sharply, stepped out onto the balcony. The cool night air rushed into the room, carrying with it the faint scent of distant rain. It did nothing to cool Bulma’s anger.

Without another word, Vegeta took off into the sky, disappearing into the dark without so much as a glance back. The door to the balcony swung shut behind him, leaving Bulma alone in the heavy silence of the room.

Her frustration boiled over, and with a growl, she grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it after him. It hit the floor with a soft, unsatisfying thump. That wasn’t enough. She grabbed another, and then another, throwing each one in a fit of anger. “You stupid, prideful asshole !” she shouted, her voice echoing through the empty room as the pillows landed in a scattered mess around her.

Chapter Text

“War is ninety percent information.” – Napoleon Bonaparte

Morning arrived, painting the balcony in the gentle hues of dawn. The sprawling estate below stretched out in quiet stillness, bathed in the early light. Bulma and Vegeta sat across from each other at a small table, the silence between them heavy, charged with the remnants of the argument that had occurred hours prior.

Vegeta had returned from training not long before, his skin still glistening with a faint sheen of sweat, his expression hard and focused, as though his mind hadn’t fully left the intensity of his morning routine. His presence felt distant, his body here but his thoughts elsewhere.

The table was set with a traditional Saiyan breakfast: steaming cups of hot tea, grains resembling rice but with a richer, earthier aroma, tangy greens, and a generous spread of meat. Vegeta ate methodically, his movements deliberate, controlled, as if still locking himself into the discipline of training. He hadn’t spoken a word since returning.

Bulma, wrapped in his oversized clothes, sipped her tea, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. The tension between them was palpable, the silence dragging on and on. He hadn’t so much as glanced in her direction, and it was driving her mad.

It had been hours since their heated exchange, since they had snapped and bitten at each other over House Terup and the Council’s meddling, but the frustration still simmered beneath her skin. She had thought the argument would fizzle out once they had both cooled down, but instead, the quiet between them felt even heavier now.

But she’d be damned if he was going to ignore her.

“The venison is great, by the way,” Bulma finally said, more a challenge than an off-handed comment, her voice louder than necessary. 

“I hunted it this morning,” Vegeta replied, his tone indifferent as he reached for more food, eyes never leaving his plate.

“With, like, a gun? Or do you just…” She mimicked a gun with her fingers, making exaggerated ‘pew pew’ noises in an attempt to lighten the mood.

A slight smirk tugged at the corner of Vegeta’s mouth, almost reluctant. “Where’s the fun in that? I prefer a more... direct approach.” He mimed a swift neck-snapping motion with his hands, a fleeting grin flickering across his face.

Bulma snorted, shaking her head, but her amusement didn’t last. 

She watched him pile more food onto his plate, but her own appetite waned, her stomach twisted with the same frustration that had kept her awake long after he’d flown off to train. As much as she wanted to let it go, her mind couldn’t stop circling back to House Terup, to the conversation they’d left unresolved.

Bringing it up now, without solid evidence, would only make him more dismissive. No, she needed to approach this carefully. House Terup had its hooks deeper than Vegeta wanted to admit, but pushing further now, after their argument, would just make him dig his heels in. She needed time—time to gather proof, to connect all the dots before he would take her seriously.

But the silence between them was suffocating. She couldn't keep circling the same frustrations without driving herself mad. Maybe she could steer the conversation somewhere else, somewhere that might help her figure out the next step.

She leaned back in her chair, trying to keep her tone casual. “So… you planning on going to the tournament next weekend?”

Vegeta glanced up from his plate, his expression hardening. “Why?”

“I want to go,” Bulma said, her voice steady but laced with determination. “To support Kakarot.”

Vegeta’s gaze snapped up, his eyes narrowing, a flicker of something dangerous stirring behind them. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Excuse me?” Bulma’s eyebrow shot up, her tone sharp with disbelief. “You can’t just—”

“Need I remind you,” he cut in, his voice dropping into that low, cold register that sent chills down her spine, “there was just an attempt on your life?”

Bulma scoffed, though the sting of his words hit harder than she let on. “That was before I got myself four personal Saiyan bodyguards. I’ll be fine.” She paused, an idea beginning to form. “Besides… I’ve got a plan.”

Vegeta exhaled, the sound heavy with exasperation. He set his utensils down, his eyes locking onto hers with that piercing intensity. “Do tell.”

A mischievous grin tugged at her lips as the plan clicked into place in her mind. “I can’t,” she teased, her voice laced with challenge.

He scowled, his patience clearly fraying. “And why not?”

“Because,” she leaned back, her grin widening, “that would make you an accessory to a crime.”

“Bulma,” he growled, his voice dangerously low. “Tell me what you’re planning.”

“I’m just messing with you,” she chuckled, trying to diffuse the tension. But then, in a rush, she added, “I’m-gonna-use-the-IESG.”

Vegeta’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing. “Absolutely not. That is proprietary technology.”

“That’s proprietary technology,” she mocked under her breath, pulling a face. Bulma crossed her arms, staring him down. “You never struck me as such a goodie two-shoes, Vegeta. It’s not like I’m giving it away to anyone. Just using it to keep myself safe. Plus, you’ll be there, and Kakarot, and your entire army of Saiyan guards.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Vegeta snapped. “It’s too dangerous. You think I can keep my eyes on you the entire time?”

She shrugged, leaning back in her chair again. “I’ve thought this through.” That was a lie. She had just thought of it. “I’ll be careful. But I’m not going to hide away while all of this is happening. Not when I can be useful.”

He let out a long, slow breath, clearly torn between wanting to protect her and knowing he couldn’t keep her locked away forever. “The tournament is a high-profile event. Many key figures will be in attendance,” he muttered, half to himself. “If anyone wanted to make a move…”

Bulma leaned forward, catching the hint of uncertainty in his voice. “Exactly. Which is why I need to be there. Maybe we’ll learn something, or someone will slip up. We could use it to our advantage.”

His eyes flicked up to meet hers, the intensity softening just for a moment. He was silent, considering, his jaw tight as the wheels turned in his mind. She could see it in the way his gaze lingered on her—there was no outright agreement, but something shifted in his stance. Finally, Vegeta shook his head, though his resistance seemed to falter. “This is reckless.”

“Maybe,” she admitted, holding his gaze, “but it’s also necessary.”

Vegeta’s eyes narrowed slightly, but there was something else there, something unspoken. His lips pressed into a thin line, his posture stiff but charged with an energy that made the space between them feel smaller. “You would willingly put yourself in harm’s way?” His tone was sharp, but she could sense the subtle shift in it—less accusation, more… curiosity. There was almost a begrudging respect lurking beneath the surface, as if part of him was impressed despite himself.

Bulma straightened, refusing to back down. “I’d rather not,” she replied, her voice steady, “but I’ll be damned if I’m just going to sit on my ass while everything happens around me.”

For a moment, something flickered in Vegeta’s eyes—something close to admiration, though it was masked by his typical gruffness. His gaze swept over her, appraising, and for a split second, the corners of his mouth twitched, as if he were suppressing a smile. His stance softened, just enough to let her know that he wasn’t dismissing her anymore. 

Bulma could sense it, the way he was looking at her now—like he admired her, even if he didn’t want to admit it. She could practically feel the heat radiating off him, the tension in the air thickening, and it made her heart race. He didn’t have to say it. She could see it in his posture, the way his eyes lingered on her with a mix of reluctance and fascination. 

She allowed herself a smile. She had him.

But before she could say anything else, a servant appeared at the balcony door, bowing slightly and interrupting the moment.

“There is an incoming communication for you, Your Highness. It’s urgent,” the servant announced.

Vegeta’s eyes narrowed. “Who is it?”

“It’s Representative Pak,” the servant replied.

Bulma stiffened, trying not to react. Pak was House Choy’s representative from the High Council. 

Vegeta stood up, closing his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath.

“What is it?” Bulma asked, concern creeping into her voice.

“If Pak is calling me, then it’s nothing good. But at least I’ll know.” His voice was grim.

Bulma frowned, confused. “I thought… House Choy…”

Vegeta’s gaze sharpened as he looked at her. “You thought what?”

Bulma bit her lip, cursing herself for nearly slipping up. “I thought House Choy would benefit from your problems. Why would they help you?”

Vegeta made a low sound, standing up. “Duke Yu is nearing his Time. The Choys will look to Lady Tatsora now.”

“His daughter?” Bulma asked, trying to mask her surprise.

Vegeta nodded, his expression closed off.

“Why do you… trust her?” she asked.

“I do not. But we were betrothed as children. I broke it off after the war with Frieza. Lady Tatsora is wise to the machinations of some of the other Great Houses and is not interested in a power struggle. Not now. Not when our numbers are so decimated after Frieza.” He paused, then added with a hint of irony, “What is that Earth saying? The enemy of my enemy is my friend?”

Bulma didn’t call him out on the lie about how their betrothal ended, knowing she had no right to. She had her own secrets, her own lies she was keeping. But she couldn’t help but wonder, worry gnawing at her insides. She tried to shrug it off, hoping it was just his pride talking, hoping he wasn’t still… hurting over Lady Tatsora and how she had ended their betrothal.

Bulma stared at the empty space Vegeta left behind, her mind lost in thought. House Terup, the assassination attempt, the pressure from the council—all of it pointed to something far bigger than mere revenge. And then there was the woman the council was pushing for, someone with ties to the Red Ribbon Syndicate.

She shuddered, thinking of the rumors Kakarot had mentioned. The Red Ribbon Syndicate’s criminal network reached deep. It wouldn’t be a stretch to consider that House Terup, known for hoarding dangerous technology, was involved. But what was their endgame?

Her thoughts drifted to Vegeta again. He had said Ascending was his only option. That if he reached the pinnacle of Saiyan power, the High Council’s opinions would matter less. But Bulma could see the cracks in his confidence. They didn’t need to remove Vegeta from power if they could weaken him through political manipulation.

She was almost certain now that they were behind the assassination attempt. They needed her out of the way, to make room for a mate of their choosing. And if they could take Kakarot out of the equation too, they’d neutralize Vegeta’s most formidable ally. Kakarot was a wildcard—his existence posed a threat not only because of his refusal to challenge Vegeta but because if he ever did, it would upend everything they were working for. Taking him out would allow House Terup to tighten their hold on Vegeta, exploiting his weakened position in the political arena.

She just needed some damn proof.

Bulma left the balcony, quickly dressed, and began her walk through the sprawling estate towards the library, hoping to find something there. The hallways stretched long and wide, illuminated by flickering sconces casting an eerie glow over the walls. She thought by now she’d be used to the violent tapestries and paintings adorning nearly every surface—scenes of Saiyan warriors in the throes of battle, their eyes wild with bloodlust, weapons raised triumphantly over their fallen foes–but she wasn’t.

After what felt like an eternity, Bulma finally reached the main part of the estate where the library was located. The transition from the violent grandeur of the halls—lined with battle murals and imposing Saiyan symbols—to the subdued atmosphere of the library was stark. It felt like stepping into a different world entirely.

The library was massive, the walls lined floor-to-ceiling with dark mahogany shelving. Each shelf was meticulously organized, filled with ancient texts—some bound in cracked leather, others encased in strange alien materials Bulma couldn’t identify. The air was thick with the musty scent of old books, knowledge preserved across centuries, but there was also a faint metallic tang that hinted at something more modern integrated into the space. 

Windows let in just enough light to cast a warm glow over the room, illuminating the polished surface of the grand table in the center, with chairs that looked more like thrones. The quiet calm of the room contrasted sharply with the violent imagery she had passed in the hall, but even here, Saiyan symbols and carvings adorned the furniture.

Nestled in the back of the massive library, between towering shelves of ancient books and scrolls, stood a sleek, high-tech computer terminal. Its smooth, metallic surface gleamed beneath the soft light filtering in from the grand windows, a stark contrast to the ancient tomes surrounding it. The mixture of old and new felt almost disjointed, as though the tech had no place in such a venerable space. But Bulma grinned as she approached it, feeling a familiar rush of excitement—this was where she thrived.

She settled into the chair, her fingers hovering above the keyboard. The faint hum of the machine brought a sense of calm, grounding her in the one thing she could always rely on—technology. For a moment, though, a flicker of doubt crossed her mind. She knew this could look bad—really bad. Hacking into Saiyan systems (again), even for something as simple as shipping manifests, wasn’t exactly the most diplomatic move. If anyone caught her snooping around, even just searching for patterns or connections, it could spell trouble.

But she quickly pushed the thought aside. She wasn’t going to dig into anything too sensitive—just some old manifests, trade logs, the kind of paperwork no one really cared about anyway. Besides, this wasn’t just curiosity. This was for the greater good. If House Terup was involved in something dangerous, if they were undermining the alliance or worse, she had to know. Vegeta might not believe her suspicions, but she couldn’t just sit back and do nothing. Not when Earth—and Vegeta—could be at risk.

Greater good, she reminded herself. This is for the greater good.

With that thought to steady her, Bulma’s fingers began to dance over the keyboard. The screen flickered to life, lines of text and menus flooding her vision as she navigated through the system. She didn’t have a clear picture of what she was looking for, but she knew the pieces were out there—hidden in the layers of bureaucracy, disguised as innocuous records. The Saiyans were secretive, but even the most ordinary details could hold clues if you knew where to look.

It didn’t take long for Bulma to crack the passcode for the less sensitive information. As she scanned the logs of trade agreements, obscure space flight manifests, and cargo shipments between planets, her heart began to race. Patterns of discrepancies emerged: shipments listed under House Terup’s name that made little sense—vague cargo entries marked as "engineering supplies" or "foreign tech samples." The frequency of these shipments, particularly those marked for late-night departures and unregistered landings in remote areas on Earth, stood out like glaring red flags.

Bulma’s eyes zeroed in on one shipment's cargo signature, and her breath hitched. “Wait a minute…” she murmured, leaning closer to the screen. One shipment, labeled as “engineering supplies,” was flagged with a Zygra tech signature. Her pulse quickened. Zygra tech had been used in the infiltrators that had attacked her and Kakarot.

The Core—a highly dangerous piece of technology banned across the Coalition—was hidden under the guise of something as innocuous as “engineering supplies.” But the timing was what really set her off. The shipment had landed on Earth just days before the infiltrator had appeared in her office.

Her mind raced. How had House Terup gotten their hands on the infiltrators? Vegeta had mentioned two infiltrators being decommissioned at Fort Einheitz a few weeks back, marked as faulty. If House Terup had somehow acquired those devices, it meant someone on the inside had to be involved.

Bulma’s thoughts spiraled with possibilities. Could the infiltrators have been stolen by someone with clearance at Fort Einheitz? Or, worse, had they been deliberately marked as faulty to cover up their theft? Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she searched security logs, looking for any discrepancies that might show unauthorized access to those decommissioned devices.

House Terup might have a reputation for hoarding tech, but stealing from one of the most heavily guarded military bases on Earth was on another level. If they were this bold, they could’ve bribed lower-ranking officers or even forged an alliance with someone in House Vegeta itself.

Just as Bulma was about to crack into more detailed records, she hit a security block. Saiyan protocols—too robust even for her to bypass without triggering alarms.

“Dammit,” she muttered. She wouldn’t get any further into Saiyan archives without tipping them off. But there was another route she could take—one that might just give her the proof she needed.

The Red Ribbon Syndicate.

House Terup had a history with the Syndicate, of that much she was certain now. Saiyan systems were nearly impenetrable, but the Syndicate? She knew Capsule Corp’s systems like the back of her hand, and they’d been tracking the Syndicate’s black market tech dealings for years. It was risky, but if she could hack into the Syndicate’s network, she might find evidence of their involvement with House Terup—and the missing infiltrators.

Now she just needed to convince a certain Saiyan Prince to let her go back home.

Chapter Text

Bulma stepped out of the library, the heavy wooden door closing behind her with a dull thud. The hallways stretched out before her, long and winding, illuminated by flickering sconces that cast restless shadows on the walls. She glanced into each room as she passed—empty chambers with ornate tapestries, cold sitting rooms filled with heavy furniture that looked more suited for a fortress than a home. She needed to find Vegeta and tell him she needed to go home, access her own computers. 

Her footsteps echoed softly on the stone floors as she wandered further into the estate, her senses alert. Vegeta had to be somewhere, and with each empty room she passed, her frustration grew. 

Then, from the far end of the estate, the sound of voices—loud, aggressive—cut through the silence. She froze, her heart stuttering in her chest. One of the voices was unmistakably Vegeta’s, his tone sharp, heated. She couldn’t make out the words, but the intensity of it sent a chill down her spine.

Without thinking, she headed toward the sound, her pace quickening. The voices were getting louder, more intense. But just as suddenly as the shouting had started, it stopped. The abrupt silence was almost jarring, as if the argument had been severed mid-sentence. Her pulse quickened, her mind racing with possibilities.

She rounded a corner and came to a halt just as Nappa stormed out of a room. His large frame filled the doorway, his face a mask of fury. The moment he saw her, his eyes narrowed, and his lips curled into a sneer that sent a wave of unease through her.

He stalked toward her, his boots pounding against the floor like thunder. “I hope you’re happy,” he growled, his voice laced with venom. The coldness in his tone hit her like a slap.

Bulma frowned, confused. “What are you talking about?”

Nappa shook his head, disgust twisting his features. “I warned the prince. Told him not to trust you. But he never listens, does he?” His eyes glinted dangerously, as if the very sight of her ignited something dark and violent inside him. “You’re lucky you’re still under his protection, human.”

Bulma’s pulse spiked. She wasn’t sure what the hell had just happened, but she wasn’t going to let Nappa stand there and threaten her like that. Squaring her shoulders, she jutted her chin out defiantly, her voice sharp. “Or you’d what, Nappa?”

For a moment, the tension between them was palpable, the air thick with unspoken threats. Nappa loomed over her, his massive frame casting a long shadow. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, his breath hot and menacing. “Or I’d kill you right here myself,” he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. The threat lingered in the air like a blade, sharp and cold.

Without waiting for her response, Nappa straightened. He gave her one last glare before storming off, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway until he disappeared around a corner.

Bulma stood frozen for a moment, her heart pounding in her ears. It was only when Nappa was completely out of sight that she felt her legs give way beneath her, her knees trembling like jello. She stumbled back against the wall, the cool stone grounding her as she tried to catch her breath.

“What the fuck was that all about?” she muttered to herself, her voice shaky.

Before Bulma could gather her thoughts, Vegeta appeared in the doorway Nappa had stormed through moments before. The sight of him made her stomach drop. His face was hard, his jaw clenched tight, and his eyes—those fierce, fiery eyes—were darker than she’d ever seen them.

Her gut twisted with anxiety. She had seen that look before, but never directed at her. It was a look that promised death.

"Vegeta?" she said, her voice trembling. “What happened? What did Representative Pak…”

Her words faltered as he stepped closer, his silence more menacing than any answer he could have given. His fists were clenched at his sides, and his tail flicked behind him, agitated, like a predator coiled and ready to strike.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” His voice was low, dangerous, but there was an edge to it, like a blade poised to cut.

Bulma’s heart skipped a beat. “Find out… what?”

His gaze locked onto hers, the storm raging beneath his calm exterior. “Pak just informed me that the Council is demanding your execution.” A strange smirk tugged at his lips, cold and humorless, reminiscent of the look he used to wear when serving under Frieza—cruel, detached, and terrifyingly empty.

Her breath caught in her throat, her body going rigid with shock. “What…?” The word barely escaped her lips. Execution? No—there had to be some mistake. "Vegeta, I... what—"

He cut her off with a snarl, his voice slicing through her like a knife. “They found out you hacked into our system—snooped where you shouldn’t have. They want your head for breaking the Saiyan-Earth Accords, and they have every right to demand it.”

Bulma's vision blurred, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “I-I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I told you I hacked your servers, I— I was just trying to protect my people—"

“Protect your people?” Vegeta’s voice exploded with fury, loud enough that it seemed to shake the very walls around them. “Is that your excuse for everything? For prying into things that had nothing to do with you?”

He stalked toward her, his presence like an incoming storm—dangerous, impossible to stop. Instinctively, Bulma pressed herself against the wall, her pulse quickening. She felt trapped, cornered, his anger radiating off him like heat. His shadow fell over her, his intense gaze pinning her to the spot.

“I wasn’t prying!” she stammered, her voice trembling. “I swear, I was only looking for anything suspicious—anything that might pose a threat to Earth. I didn’t mean to find... I wasn’t trying to—"

“Stop lying to me!” Vegeta roared, his voice like a whip crack in the suffocating silence. In an instant, he was in her face, his hands clamping down on her forearms with a grip so tight she gasped in pain.

The sound of her cry cut through his rage like a blade. He recoiled instantly, his hands dropping from her as though her skin had burned him. His face flushed, his expression flickering with something too raw to name—was it shame? Anger? He flexed his fingers at his sides, as if unsure what to do with them, like they had betrayed him by touching her in the first place.

Bulma's heart pounded in her chest. He knew. He knew she had seen more than she had ever intended. He knew she had lied to him about it. She should never have kept it from him, should have come clean the moment she realized what she had stumbled upon. Her arms still throbbed where his hands had been, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the weight of guilt crushing her.

Her lips parted, the apology ready to spill, but the look on Vegeta’s face—the fury, the betrayal—left her frozen. Words were futile now.

“I—"

“Do you know what I had to do just now?” Vegeta’s voice trembled, though not with fear—it was with a barely-contained rage that seemed to thrum in the very air between them. “I had to lie to Pak’s face. I told him I ordered you to hack into our systems. That it was some kind of fucking test of our security. Do you have any idea what this could mean if they find out the truth? What they’ll do to you? What this could do to me?”

Bulma’s breath hitched, her chest tightening as tears slid down her cheeks. She didn’t want to cry—not in front of him—but the desperation clawed at her, threatening to pull her under. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I should have told you the truth. I was only trying to protect—"

“To what?” he roared, making her flinch again. His eyes blazed with a mix of rage and... something deeper. Pain. “To protect me?” His voice cracked with bitterness. “Is that what this is? Some twisted attempt to save me? My fucking feelings? I told you to be honest with me! I told you not to keep things from me!”

The words ripped through her, each one like a jagged blade cutting deeper. His expression was a mixture of disbelief, betrayal, and disgust, and it tore her apart. The trust between them, so carefully built, seemed to shatter with every accusation he hurled her way.

“You’ve put everything at risk,” he continued, his voice quieter now, but still deadly. “You’ve risked the entire alliance, and for what? For the truth? For some misguided attempt to—"

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Bulma said, her voice shaking, her hands trembling. “I didn’t. I just—"

“I thought you, at least, could—" He stopped, his throat tightening as if he couldn’t bear to finish the sentence. His fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles bone-white. His gaze hardened, his lips pulling into a sneer. "You think I don’t see how you look at me?” His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “I can see it in your eyes. You don’t see a warrior. You don’t see a prince. You see someone who’s broken. Someone who’s... weak."

“That’s not true,” Bulma protested, her voice rising as her desperation turned into frustration. She wiped at her tears, trying to steady herself. “That’s not what I see, Vegeta. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I’m sorry I fucked everything up! But- but I’m glad I saw what I did because it showed me you’re not the monster you pretend to be.”

Vegeta’s face darkened instantly, his expression hardening like stone. "You—"

“I mean it,” she interrupted, her voice sharp, her temper starting to flare. Her chest tightened as the memories of what she had seen flooded her mind—the files, the videos of Vegeta’s childhood, the unimaginable torment he had suffered under Frieza’s control. The brutality, the sheer cruelty of it, had torn at her, leaving her stomach twisted in knots. And Vegeta, that proud, defiant warrior—he had been just a boy, subjected to a nightmare that would have broken anyone else.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her voice rising with her frustration. “You’ve built up this wall around yourself, acting like you’re invincible, but I saw what Frieza and his men did to you.” Her voice wavered, but she pressed on, trying to convey the weight of her words. “I saw what you went through, and I meant what I said before—" she paused, her heart pounding, searching for the right words, words that could reach him. "You’re stronger than any—”

Her throat closed up with emotion, the rest of her sentence stuck. She wanted him to understand, to truly hear her. To realize that she wasn’t pitying him—that she admired him, respected him, loved him, because he had endured something so horrific and still managed to stand taller than anyone she had ever known.

“Shut up.” His voice was deathly quiet, the command hit her like a physical blow.

But she refused to let his pride get in the way.

“No, I won’t shut up!” Bulma shouted back, her frustration boiling over. She stepped closer to him, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “I know I messed up. I know I deserve your anger. But I’m trying to tell you that you don’t have to keep pretending, Vegeta. You can open up with me. You don’t have to be this angry, bitter—"

“Stop it!” His roar shook the walls, the sheer force of it making her step back. His eyes burned with a wild intensity. “I don’t need your compassion! I don’t need your fucking pity!”

Bulma recoiled, her chest heaving. Her vision blurred with a mix of anger and heartbreak. “I don’t pity you, Vegeta! I lo—"

"Enough!" His voice cracked like a whip, silencing her mid-sentence. His gaze was ice-cold, his jaw clenched as if he was holding something back. “Pack your things,” he said, his voice cutting through the air like a knife. “You’ll leave within the hour.”

Bulma froze, her mind struggling to process the words, the finality of them. " What…? "

“You heard me." His tone was clipped, emotionless, as though he were delivering a verdict. His eyes narrowed, hard and unrelenting. "I never want to see you again.”

For a moment, the world seemed to tilt on its axis. Bulma’s heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in short, painful bursts. She stared at him, unable to process what he’d just said. "Vegeta, you can’t mean that."

His eyes, cold and unfeeling, locked onto hers. “I do.”

Bulma felt her chest constrict, as if an iron band had wrapped around her ribs, squeezing tighter with each passing second. Anger and heartbreak warred within her, threatening to split her in two. How could he do this? How could he shut her out so easily after everything they’d been through, after everything they’d shared?

The words spilled from her mouth before she could stop them, venom lacing every syllable. "Fine." Her voice trembled with rage. "Maybe it’s better this way. I’m tired of fighting a fucking uphill battle, anyway!”

For the briefest moment, something flickered in Vegeta’s eyes—a flash of hurt, maybe, or regret—but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, swallowed up by the cold mask he wore so well. Without another word, he turned his back on her and walked away, his steps echoing through the long, empty hall.

Bulma stood frozen, her chest heaving, her mind reeling from the finality of it all. She wanted to scream, to cry, to hurl something at him—anything to shatter the suffocating silence that now hung between them like a curse. But she didn’t. Instead, she simply watched as he disappeared from view, leaving her standing alone.

Her eyes drifted, unfocused, until they landed on a painting hanging on the wall across from her. It was a massive canvas, depicting a lone warrior in the throes of agony, his face twisted in a scream of anguish as blood poured from a jagged wound in his chest. His hands clawed at the injury, as if trying to hold himself together, to keep his life from spilling out with the blood. The crimson stains drenched the ground beneath him, vivid and violent, soaking into the dirt.

For a moment, Bulma swore she could actually hear his scream—raw, primal, like a roar from deep within her own chest. 

Her phone vibrated in her pocket, pulling her out of the trance, but she ignored it, her mind too numb to register the sound. It buzzed again, and she finally fished it out with shaking hands.

The caller ID said Kakarot.

Bulma answered, but the moment she heard his voice, her composure shattered. The sob she’d been holding back broke free, raw and uncontrollable. 

“I- I really messed up, Kakarot,” she finally said. “He… Vegeta hates me now.”

Chapter Text

“The greatest weapon against an enemy is another enemy.” — Friedrich Nietzsche

It had been over a day since Vegeta had sent Bulma away, practically banishing her back to Capsule Corp. 

She took a slow drag from her cigarette, letting the smoke linger in her lungs before exhaling in a thin, steady stream. The night air was cooler than usual, the wind biting at her exposed skin. But she barely felt it. All she could feel was the frustration—seething, burning brighter than the cigarette between her fingers.

Okay. So maybe Vegeta had every right to be angry with her. She knew that. She had lied to him, kept secrets from him, and now their relationship—whatever it had been—was over. 

And yet… even though she knew she was in the wrong, even though the guilt gnawed at her... a part of her was furious with him. It was easier that way—easier to turn the blame around in her head, easier to convince herself that it wasn’t all on her.

She couldn’t help what she had found! It’s not like she had set out to dig up the darkest, most painful secrets she could find! She had just been looking out for Earth, and he himself had said he didn’t blame her for that! Had said that he would have done the same! The fucking hypocrite. So where did he get off, shutting her out like that? Like she meant nothing, like their relationship meant nothing to him? 

Bulma scoffed, flicking the cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath the heel of her boot with more force than was strictly necessary. Damn idiot prince, she thought bitterly. Too proud, too stubborn, too stuck up his own ass to listen.

Her gaze lifted toward the sky. It was a starless, cloudy night. She narrowed her eyes, seeing movements in the deep gray-black—Vegeta’s men hovered above, keeping watch like silent shadows in the dark. Too far up to make out any distinctive features, but she didn’t need to see them. She knew why they were there. 

She supposed she should be grateful for the protection. After all, the Saiyan High Council apparently wanted her head on a silver platter for hacking into their systems. But gratitude? No, that wasn’t an emotion Bulma could summon.

Not now, anyway.

After Vegeta had coldly told her to leave, Kakarot had shown up to escort her and her family back to Capsule Corp. And she was embarrassed to admit it, but she’d been a complete mess. A sobbing, hiccuping disaster the entire car ride home, her face buried against her mother’s shoulder like a child. She hadn’t cried like that in years—not even when she and Yamcha had problems. But now, thinking back on it, all she felt was disgust.

Disgust with herself for falling apart. Disgust with Vegeta for being such a cold, prideful bastard.

Now, there was no trace of that grief—only a burning, restless anger.

He threw me away.

Her chest tightened as the thought hit her, but she shoved the hurt down, suffocating it beneath layers of defiance. She wasn’t going to cry over him anymore. She wasn’t going to sit around feeling sorry for herself while he brooded in his estate, licking his wounds and nursing his ego.

She raised her middle finger to the sky, a silent message to the guards Vegeta had stationed around her.

Fuck. You.

Without another glance upward, she turned and headed back inside, her footsteps echoing through the quiet, sterile halls of Capsule Corp. The familiar hum of the building's machinery was almost comforting, but it didn’t calm the storm raging inside her.

Back in her office, she sat down in front of her computer, frowning at the screen. She had spent the better part of yesterday trying to hack into the Red Ribbon’s servers, but no matter what she did, she couldn’t get through. She tapped her fingers restlessly against the desk, her mind replaying every failed attempt.

It didn’t make any sense. Hacking into the Saiyan’s systems had been easy—too easy, in fact. She had expected their military-grade firewalls to be a challenge, but she’d gotten in with minimal effort compared to this. Yet the Red Ribbon’s defenses were impenetrable. Every time she thought she was making progress, another security measure would kick in, locking her out or rerouting her completely.

She had tried everything—brute-force attacks, backdoor programs she’d written herself, encryption-breaking algorithms she’d thought were perfect. But nothing worked. Every time, she’d hit another wall.

“What the hell are they hiding?” she muttered, staring at the blinking cursor on the screen. It almost taunted her.

Why was it so much harder to crack than the Saiyan servers? She had hacked into Vegeta’s systems, the empire of an intergalactic warrior race, for crying out loud. But here she was, getting stonewalled by a bunch of human criminals. It didn’t add up.

She sighed, rubbing the tension from her temples. She needed sleep. She felt jagged, rough around the edges. But there was no time for that now. She could sleep when she was dead. Which, if the High Council had their way, could be much sooner than she’d like. 

A near hysterical laugh escaped her lips at the thought.

She abruptly stopped, and let her head fall forward, hitting her desk with a dull thud.

Bulma closed her eyes and took a few deep, centering breaths. Break down later, focus now. She could fall apart once she had answers. Right now, she needed answers. 

She sat back up, flexed her fingers. But no matter how hard she tried to focus, her mind kept slipping—kept pulling her back to him.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

His voice echoed in her head, the fury, the betrayal. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, trying to block it out, but the memories kept coming.

“Stop lying to me!”

I wasn’t trying to lie, she thought desperately, her nails digging into her palm. I just... couldn’t tell you. You wouldn’t have understood, she thought desperately.

“Do you know what I had to do just now?”

Her chest tightened. The look in his eyes when he said that—icy, like he was talking to a stranger, not the woman he had shared his night with.

"You’ve risked the entire alliance, and for what?"

His anger had flared, but beneath it, she had sensed the deeper pain—the bitterness he carried, the old wounds she had reopened.

"I never want to see you again."

Those words. Those final words. They had shattered something inside her.

She had tried to explain. Tried to make him see that she hadn’t meant to pry, hadn’t known that those files would be the ones she’d stumble across. How was she supposed to know that the information she’d uncover would be the one thing he couldn’t forgive her for? She had just been doing her job—doing what she thought was necessary. And now, everything was in ruins because of it.

She’d hurt him. She knew that. More than anything, she knew that.

Bulma tried to get back to work. Her fingers pressed harder into the keys, making her knuckles ache, the quiet click of the keyboard grounding her as she tried to shove her thoughts away.

He thinks I pity him.

Her throat tightened, the pressure building in her chest. She had seen him at his weakest, she had seen the wounds no one else was meant to see. And now he would never forgive her for it.

She let herself feel it for just a second—the loss, the unbearable weight of knowing she had hurt him. The image of him standing there, fists clenched, his eyes burning with betrayal—it crushed her. But then she shook her head, forcing the feelings away. There’s no time for this. Not now.

She had to focus.

It didn’t matter if he never wanted to see her again. If he... hated her. She wasn’t going to let him walk blindly into danger. He might refuse her help, but that didn’t change the fact that he needed it, whether he’d ever admit it or not.

No one had ever protected Vegeta—not even as a child.

The realization hit her like a slap. He had been left to fend for himself, to survive unspeakable horrors, abandoned by everyone who should have cared for him. No one had been there for him when he needed it most.

Bulma wasn’t going to let that happen anymore. She wasn’t going to abandon him. Not now. Not ever. Even if he never forgave her, even if he never looked at her the same way again, she would keep him safe. 

She stood up, tied her hair into a messy bun. She grabbed an energy drink from her mini fridge, cracking it open and downing it in one go. She couldn’t afford to slow down and her sleepiness would only get in the way.

Sitting back down at her desk, she glared at the computer screen like it was an enemy she was preparing to defeat. The Red Ribbon Syndicate. House Terup. There was a connection here, and she was going to find it. Firewalls be damned.

If I can’t hack the Syndicate directly, she thought, then I’ll comb through Capsule Corp’s intel until I find something.

Bulma accessed Capsule Corp’s archives on the Syndicate’s dealings, cross-referencing everything she could think of. If she could prove to Vegeta that House Terup was working with the Syndicate, he’d have no choice but to listen. She would make him see that she hadn’t been wrong.

Maybe then he would forgive her. And if not, well… That didn’t really matter, did it?

Bulma leaned back in her chair, her eyes drifting from the faint glow of the monitor to the soft light spilling through the windows. Dawn was breaking, the first pale rays filtering in and casting long, slanted shadows across the office. The muted glow touched the edges of her desk, the light growing stronger as the sun began its slow ascent. She blinked, the soft morning haze doing little to ease the strain in her tired eyes.

It had been hours since she’d begun sifting through Capsule Corp’s data on the Red Ribbon Syndicate. She hadn’t expected an easy hit—she knew better than to think their trail would be obvious—but the sheer volume of records was overwhelming. Contracts, financial transactions, reports. Line after line of numbers and dates, all meticulously documented but with nothing glaringly wrong. And yet, something gnawed at her, a nagging instinct urging her to look closer, to dig deeper.

A string of transactions caught her eye. At first glance, they were nothing special—just unremarkable business deals from a company she vaguely recognized, but couldn’t quite place. She frowned, pulled up more information on the shell company. It wasn’t directly tied to the Syndicate, not officially, but Bulma’s gut churned as she scrolled through the names and numbers. The sheer number of small, obscure deals the company was involved in set off red flags in her mind. There was no clear purpose to the transactions, and yet they were happening frequently, consistently. It was like someone was trying too hard to make them look ordinary.

Her heart raced, adrenaline kicking in as her mind whirred. This wasn’t right.

Bulma kept digging, now cross-referencing the shell company’s dealings with Saiyan military records. She didn’t have direct access to their sensitive data, and she didn’t dare try to hack them again, but Capsule Corp had amassed publicly available reports, and that would have to be enough. She clicked through supply chains linked to Fort Einheitz. Her eyes darted over logistics reports, shipments, and civilian contracts.

And there it was. Civilian goods funneled into Fort Einheitz, labeled under non-military contracts. But the quantities made no sense, nor did the timing. Why would a military stronghold need so many civilian supplies under private contracts? It wasn’t enough to scream corruption, but it was enough to raise suspicions. She pulled up more records, more details. Each new bit of information fed her growing suspicion.

The strangest part was—the officer at Fort Einheitz responsible for these deals? Unnamed. In every document, the space for the approving signature was blank.

Her heart skipped a beat. Why hide the name? Who was approving these contracts, and why wasn’t anyone questioning it? Bulma’s suspicion hardened. Someone was covering their tracks. But who? 

Her focus narrowed as she delved deeper into the shell company’s records. Her breath hitched when she found a familiar name buried in the older files: Robert Blake. Her eyes widened. He was listed as an “advisor” to the shell company—a minor role on the surface, but Blake was no minor player.

Robert Blake was the Deputy Director of Interplanetary Affairs.

Bulma’s suspicion was now full-blown alarm. She kept digging, cross-referencing Blake’s name with other files—personal investments, old business ties, anything she could find. The deeper she looked, the more disturbing the picture became.

His shell company was involved in highly questionable dealings. Contracts with off-the-grid suppliers, hidden transactions that looked legitimate at first glance, but upon closer inspection, had connections to black market tech and off-world arms dealers. Like House Terup.

Bulma’s frustration mounted. How had no one caught this? How had Blake been flying under the radar for so long? He had hidden behind layers of bureaucratic red tape, disguised everything under the cloak of government operations. Even Capsule Corp’s intelligence reports had barely touched on him. He had slipped through the cracks of every investigation.

Bulma’s mind raced, memories flashing back to the event where they had last met. The unveiling of the Earth-Saiyan Technology Exchange Program. Blake had been there, charming and smooth. She remembered how he had flirted with her, even asked her out. She had brushed it off, thinking nothing of it—just another bureaucrat trying to make a connection. But now, staring at his name on her screen, a chill ran down her spine. This whole time she had been so focused on House Terup and the Syndicate that she had never considered her own government might be right in the middle of it all.

What was the Deputy Director doing, tied up with a company like that?

But there was still no direct proof. No evidence that tied the infiltrators to Blake’s shell company—yet. Bulma scoured through old purchase orders, looking for a connection, anything that would link him directly to the crime.

Then she found something. A surge in purchases of technology components used for repairs. Things Bulma was intimately acquainted with, given her work. And the dates lined up too perfectly with the time the infiltrators had gone missing from Fort Einheitz. But still, it wasn’t enough to be conclusive.

Her mind whirred as she stared at the screen. It was too perfect, too well-timed to be a coincidence. But without hard proof, it was still conjecture. She needed more to make the case stick.

But now, she had a lead. Robert Blake was involved. She smiled, smug and determined, as a plan formed in her mind.

Bulma glanced at the clock. Nearly six in the morning. Far too early for a social call. She’d give it a few hours before reaching out to Blake, see if he was still interested in that date.

But it wasn't too early to call a certain friend.

She grabbed her phone, dialed Kakarot’s number. She knew he’d already be awake, probably halfway through his morning training or demolishing his first breakfast of the day.

He picked up by the second ring. “Hiya, Bulma! Feeling any better?”

His voice was bright, untroubled. Kakarot had a way of cutting through the noise of her life, his simple sincerity making everything seem… less complicated. He was, without a doubt, the best friend anyone could ever ask for.

Which almost made her feel guilty about what she was going to ask of him.

Almost.

Chapter Text

The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a warm, amber glow through the windows of Bulma's room. She stood in front of her mirror, dabbing a touch of perfume behind her ears and adjusting the strap of her sleek, midnight blue dress. A day had passed since her previous phone call to Kakarot, but he had called her again a few minutes ago to discuss their plan. Again. Bulma pressed her lips into a thin line as she listened to him speak.

"I don’t know, Bulma… This just doesn’t feel right,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically uncertain. “I mean, knocking a guy out? Just to steal his phone?”

Bulma rolled her eyes, fiddling with her earrings as she glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes till Robert Blake (ugh) picked her up. She didn’t have time to reassure Kakarot for the hundredth time. “We’ve been through this already,” she replied, a bit more impatient than she intended. “It’s not stealing. I’m just going to mirror his phone—he won’t even know it happened. You knock him out quick and easy, I get what I need, and we all avoid interplanetary war. Simple.”

Kakarot groaned on the other end, his voice filled with unease. “Yeah, you keep saying it’s simple, but—”

“It is simple,” she interrupted, grabbing her clutch from the dresser and throwing a few essentials inside. “And we’ve talked about this. You said you’d help.”

Kakarot fell silent for a moment, and Bulma could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. She sighed, softening her tone as she zipped up her purse. “Look, Kakarot, I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it weren’t important. Blake is dangerous—if I don’t get this info, who knows what he could do to Earth? To the alliance?” she almost said "to Vegeta" but talking about him made her throat close up.

There was a brief pause on the other end before Kakarot spoke, his voice hesitant. “But… you really think this is the only way? You think Blake’s up to something that bad?”

Bulma took a deep breath, turning to examine her reflection in the mirror again. Her dress fit like a glove, her makeup was flawless, and her eyes—despite the resent  lack of sleep—glimmered with sharp focus. She pulled a bit of hair from her updo to frame her face. She looked perfect. Naturally.

She exhaled slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to collect her thoughts before answering.

“I know he is, Kakarot. I’m sure of it. He's working with the Syndicate, and that means danger for all of us.”

She paused, watching her own reflection in the mirror. The flicker of doubt was barely visible beneath her practiced facade. She was manipulating Kakarot, tugging at the strings of his loyalty, his innate need to protect those he cared about. It wasn’t something she was proud of, but it was necessary. For the greater good, she told herself.

But as those words echoed in her mind, something cold settled in her chest. She kept using that excuse—the greater good —to justify her actions. She couldn’t help but wonder, when would that stop being enough? How far would she go before the end no longer justified the means? Isn't that what had ruined things with Vegeta?

Her hands tightened on her clutch, and for a brief moment, she felt the weight of it all press down upon her. It wasn’t like her to doubt herself, to let guilt creep in. But Kakarot’s innocence, his unwavering trust in her, made it harder to push aside.

And yet... she had to push it aside. She couldn’t afford to get soft, not now. Not when everything was on the line.

You’re doing this for everyone , she reminded herself, glancing at the reflection of the woman in the mirror. Her jaw tightened. She was doing this for Earth. For the alliance. For... Vegeta. She was doing what was necessary, and if that meant making tough decisions—even ones that turned her stomach—then so be it.

Her eyes hardened with determination. Robert Blake wouldn’t slip through her fingers. Not when she was so close to getting the proof she needed. And certainly not when Vegeta’s political position—and maybe even his life—was hanging in the balance.

"You trust me, right?" she asked.

There was a long silence before Kakarot's voice finally came through. “Yeah... I do.”

And that was all she needed to hear. Bulma’s lips curled into a smirk, her voice taking on a light, almost playful tone to ease the tension. “Okay then. We’re not really hurting him, okay? Just... knocking him out for a bit. Think of it as a light nap. He’ll wake up none the wiser, and we’ll have the information we need to stop whatever they're planning. Besides,” she added with a knowing smile, “I promised I’d help you get a date with that girl from your gym… Chi-Chi, right?”

There was a pause, then Kakarot’s excitement bubbled through the line. “Yeah, Chi-Chi! She’s awesome! She’s so strong, and her punches are insane for a human! You really think you can help me, Bulma?”

Bulma chuckled at his enthusiasm, the sound almost bitter in her ears. He was like a big kid, his innocence and eagerness cutting through the gravity of what she was asking him to do. It tugged at her guilt again, almost made it harder to swallow. But she pushed it aside. She had to focus on the task at hand. Earth’s safety, Vegeta’s future—everything depended on her getting this right.

“I’ve got you covered,” Bulma replied with a grin, grabbing a sleek jacket and putting it on. “You knock Blake out tonight, and I’ll help you sweep her off her feet. Deal?”

There was a beat of hesitation on the other end, but she could practically hear Kakarot’s smile when he said, “Deal!” His excitement about Chi-Chi overshadowed his concerns about Blake, just as Bulma had hoped.

Her smile widened, a rush of relief flooding through her. “Good. I knew I could count on you.”

She heard Kakarot clear his throat on the other end, clearly still uneasy about the plan but willing to go along with it. “So, what time should I be ready for this?”

Bulma glanced at the clock again. Fifteen minutes left. “Be ready at nine. I’ll text you when we’re leaving the restaurant.”

“Alright… Just be careful, okay? And don’t forget, we’ll have to be quick—before he wakes up.”

Bulma smirked, straightening her jacket and grabbing her keys. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this covered. See you soon, Kakarot.”

Midway through the "date", Bulma found herself staring at the flickering candle on the table, wondering if maybe the Saiyan High Council wasn’t so bad after all. Being beheaded might have been preferable to this—at least it would’ve been over quickly. She stifled a sigh, propping her chin up with her hand as her eyes unfocused, pretending to listen to Robert Blake as he droned on about… what was it? Traffic laws on interplanetary shipping routes? Or maybe something about tax incentives? Either way, it was mind-numbing.

They were at the same Brazilian steakhouse Nappa had dragged her to weeks ago for that first tense meeting with Vegeta. That had been far more interesting—chaotic, even, but at least she hadn’t been bored out of her skull. Now, as she glanced around the dimly lit space, the memory of that encounter felt like a lifetime ago. (And no, she definitely hadn’t picked this place because she missed Vegeta and knew it was his favorite. That would’ve been ridiculous.)

The restaurant was all polished wood and low, golden lighting, the lighting casting a warm glow that gave the room an intimate feel. The walls were adorned with dark tapestries and old paintings of rolling hills, scenes that felt too peaceful for how suffocating the evening was turning out to be. Despite the cozy ambiance, Bulma felt like she was being slowly strangled by boredom.

Their table was tucked away in the back, away from the larger groups. It wasn’t a particularly busy evening. The soft murmur of other patrons filled the air, punctuated every so often by the clatter of plates and the sizzle of meat. She watched as a server offered a tray of skewered meats to a nearby table. Maybe if she asked politely, they could just skewer her instead. It would be a quicker escape than suffering through another minute of this painfully dull conversation.

Blake, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to her disinterest. He sat across from her, talking animatedly about something to do with intergalactic trade policies. His eyes were bright with enthusiasm, as if this was the most fascinating topic in the universe. He had the kind of voice that was pleasant enough, but with no variation in tone—it was just one long, monotonous stream of bureaucratic jargon.

“So then the Board decided that in order to streamline the process, they’d adjust the tariffs on incoming shipments, but that required a reclassification of goods under Section 12.3, subsection B, which meant that the whole committee had to review the documentation—”

Oh god, he was still talking.

Bulma nodded mechanically, giving the occasional “Mhm” or “Really?” to keep up appearances, but her mind was wandering. Why didn’t I think of another plan? Any other plan? She glanced at the candle again, wondering if she could fake a sudden fainting spell and cut the evening short.

She’d already excused herself to the restroom twice. Any more than that, and Blake might actually start to suspect something. Maybe he'd think she had a bladder infection or some kind of medical emergency. She could only imagine his response—something equally as dull, offering some bureaucratic solution.

“—and that’s when they realized that the inspection guidelines hadn’t been updated in three cycles, so naturally, we had to initiate a review board to re-evaluate the criteria for imported…”

Bulma's eyes glazed over as she picked up her wine glass, taking a slow sip just to have something to do with her hands. She had to stick it out. She needed that phone. But god , if the night dragged on any longer, she wasn’t sure how much more she could take. 

She glanced back at Blake, who was still oblivious, still babbling on about trade agreements. 

Bulma stared down at her wine glass, swirling the dark red liquid and trying to drown out the sound of Blake’s endless babbling. She had almost perfected the art of zoning out, catching just enough of his monologue to toss in a vague nod or a “That’s interesting” when required. But honestly, after nearly an hour of dull, bureaucratic nonsense, she was starting to wonder if this whole mission was even worth it.

She took a sip, letting the rich wine coat her tongue. Just a little longer, she told herself. 

But just as she set her glass down, something—or rather, someone—caught her eye near the entrance.

Her heart nearly stopped.

Walking into the restaurant, with all the regal arrogance of a king surveying his domain, was none other than Vegeta, dressed in his royal armour. And he wasn’t alone.

Beside him was a woman. No, not just any woman— Zoya Popova-Chen . Bulma recognized her instantly. Tall, impossibly tall, with long, straight white hair that cascaded down her back in a sleek waterfall. Zoya was the kind of woman who turned heads the moment she entered a room, the type whose presence demanded attention without her even trying. Her sharp, almond-shaped eyes gleamed under the soft lighting of the restaurant, her porcelain skin flawless, her features striking. And, to Bulma’s dismay, she had to admit—objectively, Zoya was stunning. Possibly even more beautiful than her.

As they made their way through the restaurant, whispers rippled across the room. Patrons, some discreetly, others more openly, began to stare. Quiet conversations broke out as people noticed the Saiyan prince, their eyes trailing his every move.

The breath hitched in Bulma's throat as she tried to keep her composure, but inside, she was unraveling. She knew exactly who Zoya was. She had compiled the list of “suitable females” for Vegeta herself, based on political alliances, connections, and strength of character. But Zoya? Zoya was the one Bulma had deliberately excluded. And for obvious reason. Namely, her connection to the Red Ribbon crime syndicate.

And now, here she was. On Vegeta’s arm.

The blood drained from Bulma’s face, her fingers tightening around the stem of her wine glass. She tried to keep her cool, tried not to react, but the sharp sting of betrayal and disbelief hit her all at once. What the hell is Vegeta doing? Her thoughts raced. Why is he with her?

Zoya caught sight of her first, and for a brief second, their eyes met. The corners of Zoya’s lips curled upward into a slight smirk, as if she knew exactly what this looked like—exactly what it was doing to Bulma. She grabbed her wine glass again. It trembled in her hand, her knuckles going white as she clenched it harder. She could feel her pulse quickening, a storm of emotions surging inside her, threatening to spill out.

Don’t react. Don’t react. He can’t see you losing it.

But the smirk—God, that smug little smirk—enraged her. Without thinking, she jerked her hand, and a splash of wine sloshed over the rim of her glass, spilling onto the pristine white tablecloth. She cursed under her breath, hastily dabbing at the mess with her napkin. Smooth, Bulma. Real smooth.

Blake, of course, was oblivious. Still talking, still lost in his world of trade policies and tariffs, completely unaware that her entire world had just tilted off its axis. “—and the reclassification of spaceport zones in the outer districts? That’s a logistical nightmare, let me tell you…”

But Bulma wasn’t listening. Her eyes were glued to Vegeta now, searching his face, looking for some kind of answer, some kind of explanation. He hadn’t seen her yet, and for a fleeting moment, she almost hoped he wouldn’t. But then his gaze flicked to her.

Their eyes met.

For a split second, something flashed in his expression. Recognition? Guilt? Anger? She couldn’t tell. But whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it appeared. Vegeta’s face hardened, his mouth set in a firm line as he looked away, not even acknowledging her. He placed a hand on Zoya’s lower back, guiding her toward one of the private rooms in the rear of the restaurant opposite them.

Bulma’s heart sank, a heavy, painful weight settling in her chest. The restaurant seemed to spin for a moment, the soft clinking of silverware and quiet chatter fading into the background as her emotions hit her all at once. Hurt. Anger. Confusion. Devastation. Why is he here with her? She thought again. Why? Why? After everything they’d been through, after the fight that had torn them apart, was he really moving on this quickly? And with her of all people? No, it couldn't be. There had to be another explanation.

Her mind raced, heart pounding in her chest. She wanted to march over there, demand to know what the hell was going on, but she couldn’t. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Blake, who still hadn’t noticed a damn thing.

Bulma clenched her fists under the table, forcing herself to take a steadying breath. She couldn’t lose it. Not yet. She couldn’t let Blake know that she was moments away from falling apart.

She forced a tight smile, her voice strained but controlled, masking the emotional storm raging inside her. “I’m so sorry, Robert,” she said, “I suddenly don’t feel very well... Would you mind taking me home?”

Blake’s concern was immediate, his brow furrowing as he leaned forward. “Of course, of course! No problem at all. You should’ve said something sooner, Bulma. Are you alright?”

She plastered on the most reassuring smile she could muster. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’m sure it’s nothing, just a little off tonight. I promise I’ll reschedule.”

Blake’s face lit up at that, his grin wide as he relaxed, his earlier concern quickly replaced by satisfaction. “No worries, then. We’ll make it happen another time. Let’s get you home, yeah?” What an idiot.

As he flagged down the waiter to settle the bill, Bulma discreetly pulled out her phone under the table and texted Kakarot: Change of plans. Come NOW.

Chapter Text

“War does not determine who is right—only who is left.” — Bertrand Russell

“You know what? Maybe a little walk will help,” Bulma suggested as they exited the restaurant, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. “Might help clear my head.”

Blake smiled, seemed relieved that she wasn’t feeling too awful. “Yeah, good idea. A little air always does me wonders. Plus, I didn’t get to finish telling you about that reclassification proposal for the spaceport zones.”

Oh, joy , she thought, but she plastered on another tight smile. Blake retrieved his car keys from the valet, and they kept walking as he droned on about spaceport taxes and bureaucratic loopholes, his voice taking on an overly eager tone as if she’d been dying to hear more about the mind-numbing intricacies of tax codes. 

Bulma nodded absently, her mind elsewhere. She only had to put up with him for the length of the walk back to his car. She could do this.

“Uh-huh, fascinating…” she muttered half-heartedly as they strolled towards the parking garage. Blake's voice still droned on, but all Bulma could focus on was the pounding of her heart as she thought about what she had to do next.

They rounded the corner to the parking garage, took the elevator up to the third floor. The third floor was deserted. Well, nearly deserted. Bulma looked around and spotted him—Kakarot—emerging from the shadows a few steps behind them. He caught her gaze, his eyes filed with uncertainty, clearly uncomfortable with what was about to happen.

Bulma gave him a single, firm nod. Do it.

Kakarot hesitated for only a split second before his body moved with the speed and precision only a Saiyan could muster. In an instant, he was behind Blake, delivering a swift, calculated strike to the back of his neck. Blake didn’t even have time to react before he crumpled like a rag doll, his body slumping forward.

Kakarot caught him before he hit the ground, laying him gently against the side of his car. “Sorry, Mr. Blake,” he muttered under his breath, looking down at the unconscious man.

Bulma knelt down beside Blake without hesitation, moving swiftly and efficiently. She slipped his phone from the pocket of his slacks, before quickly patting him down for anything else. 

Kakarot, standing guard nearby, leaned in, his voice a low, urgent whisper. “What are you doing?” His eyes darted nervously around the deserted parking garage, scanning the shadows to make sure they were still alone. Thankfully, they were. The eerie silence of the lot only heightened the tension.

Bulma didn’t even glance up as she continued her search. “Relax. I’ve got this,” she murmured, barely audible. 

She'd planned ahead. Earlier that day, she’d hacked into the security system of the garage, rerouting the camera feed. If a security guard happened to be watching now, all they’d see was yesterday’s footage, a quiet and uneventful empty lot. Whatever happened now, tonight, would remain a secret, just as she’d intended.

Satisfied, she found what she was looking for—a second phone, hidden in the inside pocket of Blake’s jacket. With a quick glance at Kakarot, who was fidgeting with unease, she stood up, both phones in hand, ready to finish the job before the window of opportunity closed.

“Guys like this usually have more than one phone,” Bulma explained in a low voice.

Quickly, Bulma mirrored both of Blake’s phones to hers , the process seamless. She didn’t have time to admire her handiwork, though—she needed to put everything back in place before anyone noticed. Once the data transfer was complete, she returned the phones to Blake’s pockets exactly as she had found them.

“There,” she breathed, standing and dusting off her hands. “All done.”

Kakarot gave her a cautious look, his brow furrowed. “And what now? What if he remembers? This feels… wrong, Bulma.”

Bulma waved him off, pulling her own phone out to dial emergency services. “He won’t remember. He’ll be fine. Now, keep an eye out.”

Kakarot stepped back, shaking his head but doing as she asked, his posture tense as he kept watch for any passersby.

Bulma placed a call to emergency services.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

Bulma’s voice switched into concerned mode instantly. “Hi, yes! I’m out with a friend, and he just collapsed! I think he fainted, but I’m really worried about him. We’re in the parking garage by L’Emporio on East Fifth, level three. Please, could you send an ambulance?”

Bulma sat on her bed, nursing her energy drink as she scrolled through the data she’d mirrored from Robert Blake’s phone. The curtains were drawn tightly, blocking out any prying Saiyan eyes that might be patrolling the skies above. She had transferred everything to her laptop, preferring the larger screen to sift through the flood of incriminating information.

The room was dim, the only light coming from the pale glow of her laptop. It was nearing midnight, but she was too wired to rest. Her stomach twisted as each email, each exchange, revealed more of the conspiracy she had begun to unravel. With every line she read, the anger in her chest surged, coiling tighter and tighter.

Her scrolling slowed when one particular email caught her eye—dated a few months ago:

B-
The "mutual agreement" with our visitors is wearing thin. We're leaning on them too much, and it's undermining our own capabilities. We need an exit strategy before our autonomy slips entirely. I'm hearing things about a possible fracture on their side—anything you're hearing that could speed up our plans? What's the latest from the Syndicate?

-M

M-
Completely agreed. The balance of power is shifting, and Earth’s sovereignty is looking more fragile by the day. My people plan to push legislative fronts aggressively, starting with chipping away at the Accords. Subtle pressure on Earth-first initiatives will weaken their foundations.

I've secured alliances that will give us leverage when the alliance fractures. Our "friends" from the Syndicate have been invaluable. Once CC is within their control, the aliens will no longer pose a problem. CC has been working on tech that is sure to level the playing field.

As for Terup, their plans to destabilize the ruling family are moving quickly. The political pressure is building, and our back-end deals will ensure lawmakers fall in line when the time comes. Once this is over, Earth will reclaim its independence, free from outerworld intervention.

We're closer than you think.
-B

Bulma wanted to throw her laptop across the room. The audacity. The sheer fucking arrogance .

Capsule Corp within their control? The Red Ribbon Syndicate actually thought they could waltz in and take over her company? Her company? And use whatever stolen technology they could get their hands on to give Earth an advantage over the Saiyans? They had to be insane.

Capsule Corp was the empire her father had built from the ground up—and she had nurtured it, expanded it. Capsule Corp was hers . These fools really thought they could just take it? They’d have to kill her first. And they had already failed at that once.

Her breath came faster, the edges of her vision blurring as the implications sank in. Blake and others like him had been conspiring the entire time. They were working with the Red Ribbon Syndicate and House Terup to destabilize Vegeta’s rule—all so they could fracture the alliance and take Earth back for themselves.

And for what? Control of everything? Pushing Earth-first agendas like it was some noble cause? These power-hungry idiots were using it as a smokescreen to grab power—for themselves—at the expense of both Earth and Vegetasei.

Did they really think that would keep Earth safe like this? Did they even care?

Her grip tightened on the can, crushing it a bit. Undermining the Accords wouldn’t just weaken Earth’s sovereignty, it would destroy them all. The alliance was keeping Earth safe, keeping the Saiyans in check. The delicate balance Vegeta had worked so hard to create was the one thing that kept the Great Houses from tearing Earth—and each other—apart.

These fools had no idea what they were playing with. If the alliance was broken, House Terup wouldn’t stop at taking over Vegetasei. They’d come for Earth, too. Terup surely wanted a return to the days of conquest, and if that happened, Earth would either be annihilated or enslaved.

Were they really this stupid? This short-sighted?

Did they truly think they’d be safe from the Saiyans—from the other Houses—once the alliance was shattered?

Her heart fell as another realization hit her. The IESG project. They must know about it. They had to if they thought Earth could stand a chance without the alliance. But only a select few at Fort Einheitz were aware of the project’s existence. She scanned the messages again. B was clearly Robert Blake. And M… 

Bulma’s mind whirred, and with a sinking feeling, she knew exactly who “M” was. But she needed confirmation. Quickly, she opened up a tracing program, pulling the metadata attached to the emails. She combed through the email’s digital breadcrumbs.

The IP address. The server ping locations. The timestamp.

Everything pointed to one place: Fort Einheitz. And more specifically, someone with high clearance—someone with military access. Someone she had worked with and admired.

It was Colonel Mason.

She leaned back, exhaling sharply as the realization solidified. Colonel Mason—the man she had trusted, worked with closely to integrate Saiyan technology into Earth’s defense systems—was the one behind these messages. The one working to dismantle everything she had fought for.

She thought back to the man she had once respected. A stern but pragmatic leader, Mason had always been cautious about the Saiyan alliance. He had voiced doubts, questioning the wisdom of allowing an alien race with a volatile history to have such a presence on Earth. At one point, Bulma had even agreed with him.

But this? This was a betrayal. This was treason.

She laughed, the sound bitter in her throat. They thought they were really doing something here, but they were all pawns. If they thought teaming up with House Terup would work in Earth’s favor… then they were fools as well.

These men were so obsessed with power that they didn’t even realize the catastrophe they were inviting.

Bulma kept scrolling, her heart pounding as she clicked on another message—this one from Zoya, sent two weeks before the assassination attempt:

Mr. Blake,

You’ve been pushing hard on the anti-Saiyan policies, but it’s not enough. Earth seems enamored with those filthy creatures. We will have to change that.
Fortunately, House Terup has been most cooperative. The stupid monkeys can’t seem to see a bad deal when it’s staring them in the face.
The Zygra Core has been successfully delivered to the designated facility, and the funds have cleared. Let me know if you require any further assistance.

Best,
ZPC

The Zygra Core.

Bulma’s blood ran cold. One of the infiltrators—the one sent to kill Kakarot—had been outfitted with a Zygra Core. House Terup had supplied it to the Red Ribbon Syndicate, who had acquired the infiltrator from someone inside Fort Einheitz, possibly a Saiyan working with Colonel Mason, and used it in the assassination attempt.

And now, she had proof.

Bulma’s hands shook as she closed the laptop, her pulse racing. The web of conspiracy between House Terup, the Red Ribbon Syndicate, and these “Earth-first” idiots seemed close to destroying everything. And Vegeta…

Vegeta.

Her mind flickered back to him—standing in that restaurant, that awful woman by his side. Did he know? Could he possibly be unaware of just how dangerous Zoya truly was? Or worse, did he suspect something and refuse to see it? Had he felt trapped into meeting with her, forced by the High Council? …Forced to play along because of her? Because she herself hadn’t been honest with him in the first place?

Shame twisted sharply in her gut. And for once, she couldn’t think of anything to make it stop. No excuse, no justifications. She deserved to feel this way. All he had asked for was her honesty. 

She had broken his trust and look what it had brought them.

A chilling memory resurfaced, tightening her throat. One of the recordings she had stumbled across during her investigation into the Saiyans, when she had been so foolishly certain Vegeta was not to be trusted. Frieza’s cruel voice echoed in her mind, dripping with cold amusement:

“Well, well, it seems our pet monkey has learned to think. How delightful.”

Her teeth clenched, a surge of rage swelling inside her. Zoya thought of the Saiyans—thought of Vegeta —in the same twisted way. Like they were nothing but animals, tools to be used and discarded.

Bulma’s fists tightened as cold fury replaced the fear and the shame. Zoya, House Terup, the Syndicate, all of them—They were going to pay.

Bulma would make sure of it.

A sharp crash from the balcony jolted Bulma awake. She sat upright in bed, wiping drool from her cheek in a daze. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. How long had she been out? 

For a moment, the room was eerily silent, and she wondered if she’d just imagined the noise. She blinked blearily, glancing down at her laptop beside her. The remains of her energy drink had spilled on the comforter, dangerously close to her computer.

She heard more noise. This time, a low thud , followed by muttering.

Her heart skipped a beat, adrenaline spiking as she realized the sound was real. Someone was on her balcony. Someone had crashed into something.

She held her breath, straining her ears, trying to make out what was happening on the other side of the door. A thump , then the unmistakable crunch of furniture breaking under pressure.

Bulma’s eyes widened in alarm. Was it the High Council? Had they come for her head? Or was it the Syndicate? Robert Blake had been suspiciously calm during their "date"—and he had to have known she was a target all along. Oh no. What if he had remembered what she had done to him in the parking garage? Had he sent someone to finish her off after she stole the data from his phone? 

Her mind raced with possibilities, her pulse quickening as she scrambled from the bed and reached for the nightstand. She yanked the drawer open and frantically rummaged through it. Her fingers finally closed around the capsule she was looking for. She popped it open and hurled it to the floor. With a puff of smoke, a small stash of weapons materialized in front of her. She grabbed the nearest one—a compact blaster—and clutched it tightly.

Bulma trained the gun on the door, her heart pounding in her chest.

Suddenly, a loud roar echoed from the balcony, followed by the unmistakable sound of glass cracking under pressure. The door rattled violently in its frame as if something—or someone—was pounding against it with inhuman force. With a deafening crash , the glass shattered, sending shards flying as the door swung open.

In stumbled Vegeta.

Before Bulma had time to process what was happening, her finger tightened reflexively on the trigger. The blaster went off with a loud crack , the beam striking Vegeta squarely in the shoulder.

“ Fuck! ” Bulma dropped the blaster, her hands flying to her mouth. “Vegeta, I’m so sorry!”

But he didn’t even seem to notice he’d been shot.

“Wu ist iler?” Vegeta growled, stumbling into the room, his eyes scanning the shadows with a wild, unfocused intensity. He swayed slightly, and Bulma blinked in disbelief. Was he… drunk?

Her gaze swept over him, taking in the sight. He was still wearing his Saiyan armor, the same she had seen him in at the restaurant with Zoya. Though now it was disheveled—his cape slightly askew, and his chest plate scuffed as if he'd been in a scuffle. One of his boots was missing entirely, leaving his foot bare. Confused, Bulma glanced past him, out onto her balcony. Sure enough, there it was—his missing boot was wedged in the middle of one of the chairs on her balcony, like he’d stomped right through it and left the boot behind when he’d yanked his foot free.

“Wu ist iler?” Vegeta snarled again, more insistent this time, as he continued to scan the room..

“Vegeta, I have no idea what you’re say—"

Suddenly, he lunged forward, grabbing her arms. His grip was firm, but not painful. His dark eyes locked onto hers, wild and unsteady, a storm of emotions swirling beneath the surface. He swayed a bit, almost making her fall.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. He was definitely drunk.

Bulma placed her hands on his chest and gently pushed him away, her heart racing as she tried to make sense of the situation.

“I don’t speak Saiyago,” she said softly, trying to keep her tone calm. “Well, I’ve been practicing, but I’m not fluent yet. Can you please speak Earth Standard?”

“In'akzepilis!” he bellowed, his voice booming through the room. His scowl deepened, frustration clear in the hard lines of his face. “Der zuküra Kögina Vegetaseae mudeb der Lingache ihres Polkes loqui.”

“Vegeta,” she said more firmly, “In. Standard.” Why was he this drunk? Bulma had never seen Vegeta like this before.

His glower darkened, his lip curling in a snarl. “I said —” he started again, though his accent had thickened considerably in his drunken state. “The future queen must speak the language of her people.”

Bulma blinked, her breath catching in her throat. Future queen? Her heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, her brain nearly stopped working.

Vegeta paused, then added, voice lower and more dangerous, “Now... where is he?”

Bulma’s stomach fluttered. Her mind reeled, trying to process what he’d just said. Future queen? Her pulse raced, but before she could even begin to unpack that, her voice came out in a shaky whisper.

“Where—where is who?”

“Robert Blake,” He spat the name like venom. “He was not in his home, where he ought to be. Is he here?” His words slipped back into slurred Saiyago, rough and heavy with rage. “Ikt mudeb Ihm töteficere weil Ir das etquid das mihr apparhört berügit haset.”

Bulma’s mouth formed a small "o". Her heart stuttered again, caught between confusion and disbelief and longing. Hadn’t he told her that he never wanted to see her again?

“Um…” she stammered, her mind spinning, trying to catch up. “He’s... He’s in the hospital.”

Vegeta narrowed his eyes at her, swaying slightly as he studied her. His face was flushed, his gaze glassy. The anger was still there, but muted by the haze of alcohol. “Ware–Why?” he asked, voice gruff but tinged with confusion.

Bulma huffed, exasperated. “Vegeta, maybe you should lie down.”

A wicked grin spread across his face, his demeanor suddenly shifting. “In your bed?” he said, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive tone. He reached for her again, this time pulling her body flush against his. “With pleasure.”

His tail stroked the side of her thigh. She couldn’t help but shudder.

Bulma wanted nothing more than to give in and kiss him, but something was off. He wasn’t himself. She touched his cheek, then his forehead. He was burning up, and his pupils were dilated, almost unnaturally wide. Was he really just drunk?

Chapter Text

Vegeta sat on her bed, his posture loose and unsteady as he beckoned to her with a crooked finger. His words slurred together as he tried to form coherent sentences—complimenting her beauty, telling her in broken Standard that she’d make the perfect queen for a warrior like him. Under any other circumstances, his flattery would have made her smile, maybe even blush, but not tonight. Not like this. He wasn’t in control of himself.

“Meune Damina. Woman. You are too far away,” he muttered, his voice thick with intoxication. His dark eyes struggled to focus, flicking from her face to the empty space beside her and back again. He frowned deeply, confusion etching itself into his features. “Why are there two of you?”

Bulma swallowed hard, her heart twisting with anxiety as she watched him. For a moment, he seemed to consider the absurdity of seeing double. But then he grinned, apparently deciding he didn’t mind an extra version of her. Normally she would have rolled her eyes and yelled at him for his cocky attitude, but not now. Now she was too worried.

This wasn’t right. There was no way this was just alcohol. She knew Saiyans could get drunk, sure, but it took a hell of a lot of alcohol to get them there, and even then, it didn’t look like this. No, this was something else.

Had he been… poisoned?

She gasped as she watched him suddenly shoot up from the bed, his movements jerky and erratic. He staggered around the room like a man trying to walk through water, delirious, muttering incoherently in half-Saiyago, half-Standard. Panic rose in her throat. She reached for one of the weapons on the ground, her fingers brushing against the cool metal of a small Capsule Corp-issue blaster, specifically modified for high-impact defense. It wasn’t guaranteed to knock out a Saiyan, but it was her best shot if things got out of control. She gripped it tightly and pressed her back against the wall, ready for anything. If Vegeta turned violent, she wasn’t sure if it would be enough to stop him, but it was better than nothing.

His eyes flickered wildly, unfocused, darting around the room as if searching for something—or someone—that wasn’t there. Then, his expression shifted, darkened, his body coiling with tension as he turned toward an invisible adversary.

Bulma pulled her phone out with shaky fingers and ran the Saiyago-Standard translation program. She didn’t want to eaves drop, but she needed to monitor his state of mind.

“Get away from me!” he snarled in his mother tongue, his voice raw and savage as he swung his arm at the air, as if swiping at an unseen foe. “You think you can beat me? I will crush you!”

There was a tremor in his voice, something fierce and desperate, and beneath it was a thin, brittle edge of fear—a tone Bulma had never heard from him. Not since the recordings she had watched.

Her chest tightened. This was wrong. This was so wrong. Vegeta, in his right mind, would never show such weakness—never let anyone see him in this state. He was battling ghosts, demons from his past, and it was tearing him apart right in front of her.

“Fuck you! I will destroy you all!” He struck at nothing, then staggered and slumped against the wall a few feet away from her.

The next second, his demeanor shifted again. His lips curled into a cocky smirk, and he stumbled toward her, his gaze softening as he leaned in far too close. “You know you want me,” he murmured in Saiyago, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear, his breath hot against her skin. “Don’t fight it, Bulma. I’m a prince. You should be honored to be mine…”

Bulma’s breath caught in her throat, torn between a brief flicker of flattery and a surge of panic. He didn’t know what he was saying. He didn’t even truly know where he was. She gently pushed him back, her heart breaking a little as she realized how far gone he was. This wasn’t Vegeta—not really.

“Freiza!” Vegeta suddenly roared, whirling away from her and punching the air. His voice cracked with raw hatred. “ I’ll kill you, you sick bastard! You hear me?! You’ll never control me again! I will free my people if it’s the last fucking thing I do! ”

Bulma’s hands flew to her mouth. 

Vegeta’s face twisted with fury, veins bulging along his neck, his whole body trembling with rage. But he wasn’t looking at her—he had left the room, left this place in time again, lost somewhere in his mind.

She turned away, unable to look at him. Vegeta would never want her to see him like this. The proud warrior prince, reduced to a man battling invisible monsters. He would hate her seeing his vulnerability. But she couldn’t leave him like this. What had happened to him between the restaurant and now?

Zoya. It had to be her.

Bulma's mind raced, searching for answers. But no… Vegeta wouldn’t have accepted food or drink from just anyone, least of all her. He might have felt obligated to meet with her, but a Saiyan would not dine with just anyone. And besides, he was too paranoid, too strategic, to let his guard down. He wouldn’t have accepted anything she offered, wouldn’t have even drunk anything in her presence. So how? How had he ended up like this?

Whatever it was, she needed to figure it out—and fast.

Bulma bit her lip, her eyes flicking nervously to Vegeta as he slumped to the floor, muttering something indistinct about Saiyan pride. The sharp edge of worry tugged at her, twisting her gut. She had to get him to the labs. Fast.

She wasn’t a medical doctor, but Capsule Corp had contracts with multiple hospitals and research facilities. They’d just developed a new diagnostic tool—a state-of-the-art machine designed to analyze blood samples and detect a wide array of toxins or foreign substances in mere minutes. It was supposed to be revolutionary, capable of pinpointing what was wrong with a patient with incredible precision.

She prayed it would be able to detect whatever was coursing through Vegeta’s system.

Saiyan biology wasn’t identical to human biology, but it was close enough. Close enough to procreate, after all. Bulma clung to that small hope—their genetic similarities might be enough for the machine to give her answers, something to help him. Because if she didn’t figure this out soon…

Her gaze drifted back to Vegeta, who was now growling in Saiyago, his voice low and broken, full of anger that seemed to spill out without direction. The sound of it made her heart clench, her frustration and fear building by the second.

She refused to let him suffer like this. She set the blaster down and moved to help him up.

“Come on, Vegeta,” she whispered, stepping closer. “Let’s get up.”

He shoved her hand away weakly, muttering, “Don’ need yer help,” in Standard. His voice was strained, barely more than a slur, but it still held that stubborn edge of pride.

Bulma crossed her arms and set her jaw, her patience thinning. “Get up before I make you.”

He glanced up at her, and for a split second, a lopsided, almost childlike grin spread across his face—so out of place, it felt wrong. That was an expression she might expect to see on Kakarot, but not on Vegeta. His words came out slurred but teasing, “Wha'ever meune Damina desires,” he said, the words stumbling off his tongue as he pushed his back against the wall to stand.

Bulma's heart gave a small, bittersweet pang at the use of Saiyago—"my woman" sounded so endearing coming from him, but this wasn’t the time for emotions. She had to stay focused.

"Right, well, what I desire is to get you back on your feet." She rubbed his back, guiding him toward the door of her bedroom, coaxing him along. "There’s a much better bed in my lab. I’ll show you. Come on.”

Vegeta blinked sluggishly at her bed, his brow furrowing in confusion. “But… perfec’ly good bed… here…”

Bulma swallowed down her exasperation and kept her voice gentle, despite her growing panic. “Yes, but the bed in the lab is even better. Trust me, you’ll like it.”

To her relief, he didn’t argue this time. He let her guide him out of the room, stumbling slightly but still managing to keep himself upright with her support. 

They made it halfway down the hall when Vegeta’s legs gave out beneath him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed against the wall with a groan, his body too heavy for his strength to support any longer.

“Dammit,” Bulma muttered under her breath, the sight of him like this sending a surge of panic through her chest. Without a second thought, she summoned some bots.

The bots appeared swiftly, mechanical arms moving with practiced precision as they lifted Vegeta effortlessly onto a mobile stretcher. Bulma watched with a mix of relief and urgency as they began to transport him down the corridor, her mind racing. She couldn’t take him to the main facilities at Capsule Corp—not with Saiyans stationed all over the grounds. Not with her unsure of who she could even trust at this point.

No, this had to be done quietly, without prying eyes.

"Head to the R&D labs," she instructed some the bots, her voice low but firm. "And bring back the diagnostic unit from lab three. I’ll meet you back in my office."

The bots blinked in acknowledgment and wheeled Vegeta toward the quietest part of the compound, while two others headed for Research and Development. Bulma followed at a brisk pace, her heart pounding in her ears. Every second felt too long, every breath too shallow. Vegeta seemed to be growing weaker by the minute, and the questions that swirled in her mind only intensified the urgency.

Bulma set to work preparing the space, clearing her desk and turning on extra lighting. A few moments later, the other bots returned, carrying the sleek diagnostic machine she needed along with a thin metal bed.

The bots worked quickly, gently laying Vegeta on the bed as the diagnostic machine powered up, its silvery surface gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. The device was compact and elegant in design, with multiple arms folded neatly into its sides, each equipped with specialized tools for drawing blood and running a variety of tests. It hummed softly as its internal systems activated.

Bulma hovered nearby, chewing the inside of her cheek as the first mechanical arm extended from the sleek device, pricking Vegeta’s skin to draw a sample of blood. The soft hum of the machine filled the room, its quiet efficiency a sharp contrast to the wild storm of anxiety brewing in her chest. She tapped her fingers against the console, her movements jittery, impatient, as if willing the results to appear faster.

But nothing came back. No known toxins. No anomalies. No explanation for his condition.

Her heart sank, a cold dread settling deep in her bones. She blinked rapidly, fighting back the stinging in her eyes. Panicking now wouldn’t help him. Panicking wouldn’t save him. But the helplessness clawed at her, threatening to tear her apart.

Suddenly, a weak grip on her wrist pulled her from her spiraling thoughts. She glanced down to see Vegeta’s fingers curling around her, his touch feeble but deliberate. His eyes, though half-lidded and unfocused, sought hers.

“Where… where am I?” he rasped in Saiyago, his voice low and strained. His brow furrowed in confusion, as though even the act of speaking took monumental effort. "What are you doing?"

Bulma swallowed the lump in her throat as she read the translation on her phone. “You’re safe. You’re with me. I’m going to help you,” she whispered softly as she touched his brow. A tear slipped from her eye and she quickly swiped it away.

Vegeta shook his head, his grip loosening slightly. “Don’t bother,” he muttered, barely audible. His gaze flickered, distant and detached. “This… won’t kill me. And if it does... it’s nothing less than I deserve.”

His eyes drifted past her, as if he were seeing something she couldn’t—some faraway memory that haunted him. His usual intensity was gone, replaced by a deep, hollow sadness that twisted Bulma’s heart in ways she wasn’t prepared for.

But then, for a fleeting moment, his eyes focused, truly focused, locking onto her with startling clarity. “Is this… Herdensaal?” he asked, his voice thick and broken. The translation software could not find a proper translation for the word “Herdensaal”. For a moment it paused, thinking, before offering the word “Valhalla” as the closest approximation.

Bulma’s breath caught in her throat. Vegeta thought he was dead.

“No,” he whispered, closing his eyes again, the strength in him fading. “No… I never Assended. I... I am unworthy.”

The words shattered something inside her, a tremor of pain coursing through her veins. She couldn't lose him. Not now. Not like this.

Without another thought, she pulled her phone from her pocket, her fingers shaking as she dialed. The moment the line connected, she didn’t even wait for a greeting.

“Kakarot,” she said, her voice trembling as she struggled to keep it together. “I-I need your help. Please, come quick. It’s Vegeta. He’s hurt.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “It’s… bad.”

Chapter Text

Bulma could be accused of many things, but neglecting details wasn’t one of them. From the moment Zoya Popova-Chen had come up as the top candidate for Vegeta’s “suitable human female,” Bulma had poured herself into gathering every scrap of information available. Know thy enemy and all that jazz. And when you were heiress to, and more importantly involved in nearly everything at, Capsule Corp—where intel and science bled into each other—that principle became second nature.

She had used every resource at her disposal. Capsule Corp’s extensive databases, private dossiers, government reports, surveillance intel on the Red Ribbon Syndicate—it had all been put to good use. Piece by piece, Bulma had constructed a clear picture of Zoya Popova-Chen, a woman whose every move seemed as calculated as her rise to power in the RRS.

Zoya’s everyday schedule was as predictable as clockwork, another detail Bulma had noticed. Most mornings, she kicked off her day with an intense workout routine, likely aimed at maintaining that statuesque figure of hers. She favored high-end gyms, but her late-morning jogs were something different. Zoya liked to run on a particular trail in the city—one that snaked through a thickly wooded park, nestled between high, sloping hills. It was scenic, sure, but what struck Bulma most was how often the trail was completely deserted. Quiet. Isolated. Ideal for someone who didn’t want to be seen.

And now...

Bulma glanced at the clock. Midmorning.

If Zoya stuck to her routine, she’d be heading out for her jog soon. A jog along a trail that was rarely busy, surrounded by dense trees and far from prying eyes.

A perfect place to have a quiet word with her enemy.

Bulma left Vegeta in Kakarot’s care. After a tense night of delirium, Vegeta had finally drifted off into a fitful sleep. Kakarot stood by his bedside like a silent sentinel, his usual carefree demeanor replaced with a rare, quiet focus.

She gave Kakarot a hug, a quick and wordless thanks for everything he was doing—for helping Earth, for protecting Vegeta. She wondered if he knew that he was, at the moment, the only thing holding the fragile alliance between their world's intact.

She wondered if he knew just how much he meant to her.

Bulma had few friends. She simply didn't have the time. But she was glad to have him. She was glad that the Saiyans had come to Earth. She was grateful to know him.

Bulma pulled away before emotions could swell. There was no time for that now.

In her room, Bulma slipped into a set of black athletic gear, pulling a hoodie over her head. The sleek, dark fabric hugged her form, but today wasn’t about looking good. She was focused on being practical, unrecognizable. She didn’t need attention. Before leaving her room, she glanced at the weapons still on the floor. A small pistol caught her eye and she grabbed it. Just in case.

Next, she grabbed a few items from a private lab, one tucked deep within one of the R&D buildings on the Capsule Corp compound. Then, instead of taking her usual flashy ride, she hopped into one of the company’s generic sedans—a matte gray vehicle that could easily blend in with traffic. Nothing about it screamed “Bulma Briefs.”

She drove with an eerie calm and parked in a small lot next to a shopping center a few blocks away from the trail where Zoya was known to jog. Before getting out, she grabbed one of her latest gadgets from the passenger seat—a sleek, mini-drone no bigger than her palm. It was shaped like a disc, the underside reflective, mirroring the sky above to make it nearly invisible once airborne.

Rolling down the window, she flicked her wrist and released the drone into the air. It hummed softly as it ascended, the reflective surface blending seamlessly into the clouds. Bulma watched it disappear from sight, her eyes flicking to her phone. A few moments passed. Then, finally, an alert popped up. Zoya had been spotted on the northern stretch of the trail.

Perfect.

Bulma tugged her hoodie lower over her hair, concealing the bright blue strands that would make her instantly recognizable. The last thing she needed was anyone putting the pieces together. She grabbed the small, inconspicuous backpack from the back seat and locked the car, glancing around to get her bearings.

She made her way toward the trail. Toward her target.

Bulma jogged down the narrow path, her feet moving rhythmically over the dirt and fallen leaves, her breath steady. The dense canopy above filtered out most of the sunlight, casting the trail in long shadows. She quickened her pace, the silence of the woods settling over her like a shroud. Only the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of birds accompanied her, the trail deserted aside from one person.

Zoya.

She was just up ahead, alone, jogging at a relaxed pace, listening to music and completely unaware that Bulma was closing in. The trail was narrow, winding deeper into the forest, and Bulma knew she didn’t have much time. If she wanted to corner Zoya, it had to be now.

Bulma slowed her steps as she approached a bend in the path, veering off to the side and into the underbrush. She moved carefully, quietly, weaving between the trees until she was ahead of Zoya. The woods were thick here, the air cool and still, as though the forest itself held its breath in anticipation of what was about to happen.

Bulma crouched behind a large tree, her heart pounding in her chest, waiting for Zoya to come into view. Her mind raced. She had intended to confront her—demand answers about what she had done to Vegeta—but now that the moment was upon her, something dark and primal stirred within her.

She reached for something in her bag. It was a compact, non-lethal weapon—one she’d developed herself. It was a small, sleek baton, about the size of her forearm, fitted with electrical nodes that could incapacitate a target with a single strike. It wasn’t meant to kill, just disable.

But as she heard the soft footfalls of Zoya approaching, something inside Bulma shifted. The anger she’d been holding back, the fear at seeing Vegeta delirious, poisoned, fighting ghosts from his past—it all came crashing down at once. Her hands clenched around the baton, her knuckles turning white.

Zoya came into view, her long white hair swaying with each step, her tall, athletic form moving gracefully along the trail. She looked completely unbothered, oblivious to the chaos she had created.

Bulma’s vision blurred with fury. She stepped out from behind the tree, blocking Zoya’s path.

Zoya skidded to a halt, her eyes widening with surprise for a moment as she came face to face with Bulma. For a moment, they stood there, silent, just assessing each other.

“Briefs,” Zoya finally said, her voice smooth, unruffled. “This is a surprise.”

Bulma’s chest heaved with barely controlled rage, her fingers tightening around the baton. “What did you do to him?” she demanded, her voice low but trembling with anger.

Zoya raised an eyebrow, a slow, smug smile creeping across her lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Vegeta,” Bulma hissed, stepping forward, the baton buzzing faintly in her hand. “What did you do to him last night?”

Zoya chuckled softly, her gaze lazily drifting down to the baton in Bulma’s hand before locking back onto her with a look of pure condescension. “Ah, the Saiyan… prince. Is that what this is about? Our dinner? Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Briefs.”

Bulma’s jaw clenched, the anger bubbling beneath her skin like magma ready to burst. Without hesitation, she lunged forward, faster than Zoya could react, slamming the baton into her chest and forcing her back against a nearby tree. At the same time, she released a small device from her belt—a prototype she had been working on. It immediately expanded, its flexible coils wrapping around Zoya and pinning her against the tree with a sharp metallic snap.

The baton crackled with electricity, and Zoya cried out in pain, her body jerking violently against the restraints. Bulma held the switch down, letting the current flow a few seconds longer than necessary before finally releasing it.

“You poisoned him,” Bulma seethed, her voice low, trembling with fury. “I know you did something. Tell me what it was, or I swear I will make you regret it.”

Zoya gasped for air, her chest heaving, but her voice, when it came, was a venomous whisper. “Careful, darling… You’re playing a dangerous game right now. Release me before you’re in over your head.”

Bulma’s breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, her entire body shaking from the effort it took to stop herself from using the full power of the weapon again. Every muscle in her body was taut, a tight coil of fury ready to snap. “You think this is a game?” she spat, her voice trembling with barely restrained rage.

Zoya’s lips curled into a slow, cruel smile, her eyes gleaming with malicious delight, as though she was savoring every moment of Bulma’s struggle. “Tell me,” Zoya purred, her voice dripping with venom, “do you really think your pet monkey is still alive? I doubt he’ll last much longer.”

The words hit Bulma like a white-hot knife, cutting through her control. Without thinking, she slammed the baton into Zoya’s ribs and activated it again. The sharp crack of electricity filled the air, sizzling through Zoya’s body. Her scream tore through the silence of the forest, her muscles spasming violently as her head lolled forward.

Bulma’s heart pounded in her chest like a war drum, her vision swimming—not with tears, but with the all-consuming, blinding fury that roared inside her. She had never felt anything like this—this wild, uncontrollable rage. It was like a storm raging within her, and it took everything she had not to unleash the weapon again.

“Tell me what you did,” Bulma demanded, her voice hoarse, shaking with the weight of her anger.

Zoya lifted her head weakly, a rasp of a laugh escaping her lips. Despite the agony, she still had the audacity to smile. “No,” she croaked, her voice full of defiance. “I don’t think I will.”

Something inside Bulma snapped.

Her hand flew to the gun at her side, yanking it from its holster with shaky fingers. She aimed it at Zoya’s chest, slowly raising it to point at her face. Her pulse thrummed loudly in her ears, the weight of the weapon heavy in her hands.

“Tell me what you did,” Bulma repeated, her voice deadly calm, despite the storm of fury raging inside her.

Zoya raised a brow, her lips curling in condescending amusement. “A hot-headed brute,” she sneered. “Just like your plaything.” She clicked her tongue, shaking her head slightly. “Ms. Briefs, this is not how we get what we want.”

“Tell me what you did to him!” Bulma’s voice cracked, raw with desperation.

Zoya’s smirk only widened. “Even if I did, what good would it do?” Her tone was almost bored, as if Bulma’s rage was nothing more than an inconvenience. “Either way, the Accords are finished. Now put that away and release me.”

Bulma’s eyes narrowed, her mind racing. “What are you talking about?”

Zoya’s smile turned vicious. “I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough—on the news, perhaps. But tell me,” she continued, her voice low, taunting, “how well do you think Earth will take to an alien prince who murders a helpless human government official in his own home?”

The words hit Bulma like a slap. A cold, sickening realization washed over her.

Zoya had planned this. She had taken Vegeta to the restaurant last night knowing full well that Bulma and Robert Blake would be there. She must have drugged him, pushed him to the edge, hoping he would lose control—hoping that in his rage, he’d lash out at Blake. The perfect storm. And if Bulma hadn’t intervened… if she hadn’t put Blake in the hospital... Vegeta would have killed him. He would have been painted as a monster, and the alliance would have crumbled overnight.

The fury in Bulma’s chest burned hotter, mingling with a deep, gnawing fear. Zoya had tried to use Vegeta’s emotions, his history, to destroy him—to destroy everything. And she had almost succeeded.

Bulma’s grip tightened around the gun, her finger trembling over the trigger. The pounding of her heart drowned out everything else, a relentless thrum of adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Zoya let out a low, mocking laugh.

“Put the gun away,” Zoya sneered, her voice dripping with condescension. “You're not a ruthless killer like Veget-”

Before Zoya could finish her sentence, before Bulma even fully realized what she was doing, her finger jerked.

The gun fired, the crack of the shot reverberating through the quiet woods. Zoya’s head jerked back from the impact, her body sagging against the restraints, suddenly heavy and motionless.

Silence followed. No more defiant smirks. No more venomous taunts.

Bulma stood frozen, her heart hammering in her chest as her mind struggled to catch up with her actions. She was beyond exhausted from days of not enough sleep. Her vision tunneled, the edges of the world blurring, shrinking, as reality slowly bled back in.

What... What did I just do?

Behind her, a slow clap echoed through the woods, breaking the stillness. "Well done," a deep voice said. A voice she recognized.

Bulma’s heart lurched, terror gripping her chest like a vise. Her stomach dropped, cold and heavy. She’d been caught. She had murdered someone, and someone had seen. Fuck.

Her hands tightened around the gun, her breath catching in her throat. She whirled around, weapon still raised, pointing it toward the intruder.

It was Raditz.

He stood there, arms up, but no fear on his face—just amusement, as if he had stumbled across something mildly entertaining and not a literal crime scene. His grin was infuriating, smug.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a shrug, like they were discussing the weather. “If you hadn’t killed her, I would have.” He tilted his head, his wild hair shifting with the movement. "So..." His grin widened. "What should we do with the body?"

Chapter Text

“In war, there are no unwounded soldiers.” —José Narosky

Bulma sat in her home office, staring at but not seeing the data on the screen before her. Two days had passed since Bulma’s… altercation with Zoya, and the memory of it followed her like an unwelcome ghost. Exhaustion gnawed at her, but sleep was elusive—every time her eyes closed, she woke in a cold sweat, gasping for air, her hand instinctively reaching for the nearest weapon. She felt like she was teetering on the edge of paranoia, convinced that monsters—very real monsters—would eventually come for her.

Bulma didn’t regret killing Zoya, not in the least. In fact, if she had to, she’d do it again without a second thought. Protecting her home and protecting Vegeta were all that mattered. Keeping everyone safe—even if it meant spilling blood—was a price she’d pay a thousand times over. But just because she didn’t regret it didn’t mean she wasn’t terrified. Every noise, every creak in the floor, sent a jolt of panic racing up her spine. Her nerves were frayed, her heart pounding with a constant edge of fear. How long could she keep going like this—looking over her shoulder, wondering when the hammer would finally drop?

And then there was Raditz.

She wasn’t sure what to make of him. When he’d found her, gun in hand, her heart had plummeted. For all she knew, he could’ve reported her right then and there. But Raditz hadn’t. Instead, he had been... helpful. Too helpful, in fact. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to his sudden willingness to assist her.

But Vegeta trusted him. And Vegeta didn’t trust easily, especially not with something as important as his inner circle. Raditz had become part of that, and in Saiyan culture, loyalty to one’s House was sacred. Raditz had revoked his clan name to join House Vegeta—a bold, irreversible choice. Bulma knew how unusual that was in Saiyan society. It was unheard of to abandon one’s House unless you were cast out. But Vegeta, for all his pride and adherence to tradition, wasn’t like most Saiyans. His time with Frieza had shaped him differently, given him a pragmatism and a broader view of loyalty.

Frieza had stripped Vegeta of everything, forcing him to fight and kill for an empire that saw him as nothing more than a weapon. Perhaps that’s why Vegeta had shown a rare mercy, something unheard of in Saiyan society—he allowed warriors like Kakarot to retain their heritage, to keep their clan names, and still gave them a place within his ranks. It was a choice, not a demand of allegiance. Even those who had lost their entire clans, like Lieutenant Corjeto, her father’s friend, were welcomed under Vegeta’s House without being forced to renounce what remained of their identity. In a culture where loyalty to a House usually meant forsaking all others, Vegeta’s pragmatism stood out.

He understood what it meant to lose everything, to have no one, and maybe that had made him more understanding. It's probably one of the reasons the High Council wasn't happy with him, either.

But Raditz? Raditz had chosen to pledge himself solely to House Vegeta. Of his own free will. That had to count for something, right?

Bulma thought back to their first conversation, right after she arrived at Vegeta’s estate.

"House Bardock will always remain Min’Sipan thanks to my idiot brother," Raditz had grumbled. "I wanted to align myself with a powerful house. I’m proud to belong to House Vegeta."

It wasn’t lost on Bulma that Raditz was more interested in power than loyalty, but in Saiyan culture, even a power-hungry warrior’s vow to his House held weight. And with only two remaining members of his original House—Raditz and Kakarot—who could blame him for wanting to secure his future under Vegeta’s rule? Kakarot might have clung stubbornly to his clan name, but that wasn’t pragmatic. Without challenging Vegeta for dominance, Kakarot would always remain at the bottom, no matter his strength. No matter that he had Ascended.

Raditz’s choice made sense. But that didn’t mean Bulma trusted him.

There was a traitor among Vegeta’s ranks. Someone with high clearance, feeding intel and supplies to both the Red Ribbon Syndicate and House Terup. Could it be Raditz? She couldn’t rule him out. She couldn't rule anyone out. But as much as she wanted to protect Vegeta, she couldn’t jump to any conclusions without proof.

Besides, how would killing Zoya help Terup at this point? She highly doubted that they’d want her dead. At least not yet. Maybe Raditz had his own reasons for wanting Zoya dead—maybe eliminating her now was part of some larger plan she couldn’t see yet?

Or, more likely, maybe he wasn't the traitor at all. After all, Raditz had helped her get rid of any evidence. He had made himself an accessory. And quite willingly, too. 

Bulma didn’t know what to think.

"I've got this," Raditz had said with a casual shrug. He hadn’t even flinched, no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just a concentrated beam of energy, and Zoya’s body had disintegrated into dust, scattered by the wind. It had been easy, disturbingly casual—as though in his eyes, life and death were merely trivial matters to be swept away.

As if she had any room to judge. She was the reason Zoya was dead.

"You're alright, for a human," Raditz had said afterward, flashing a toothy grin. "Most humans freak out over their first kill, but not you. No wonder Prince Vegeta has a thing for you." His laugh had been too loud, too sharp, and when he slapped her on the back, she had stumbled forward, nearly losing her footing.

"Don't worry," he added, his voice lowering just slightly, a hint of something darker beneath the surface. "I promise you, no one else saw."

It was then that Raditz had given her a second look, his expression shifting from amusement to something more assessing, almost predatory. His eyes swept over her, lingering for a beat longer than necessary. "Don't start getting second thoughts now, Ms. Briefs. It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?" His tone was light, but there was an edge beneath it.

Bulma had stiffened under his gaze, her mind racing. Why had he been so quick to help? And why had he followed her in the first place?

Raditz had leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's in everyone's best interest if no one knows Zoya is dead yet." He let the words hang in the air for a moment, watching her reaction. "Think about it—if word gets out, there’ll be chaos, yeah? The Syndicate will retaliate, and the prince, well, you know how he’ll react. He’s got enough on his plate without worrying about this right now with the Tournament this weekend."

The logic of his words had hit her hard, and guilt twisted in her stomach. She hated that what he said made sense. Vegeta already hated her for keeping secrets from him—secrets about his past, about her hacking into the Saiyan systems. And now, here she was, being told to keep another one, knowing that if Vegeta found out later, it would only drive a deeper wedge between them.

Still, Raditz had a point. Telling Vegeta right now, in the middle of everything, would only complicate things further, destabilize everything they had worked for. She would tell him. Just… not yet. Not until she had a better grip on the situation.

She hadn’t responded after that, just nodded numbly and walked back to her car. For over an hour, she drove aimlessly, the open road offering no comfort, only the steady drum of her spiraling thoughts.

It had all come crashing down at once. Her stomach lurched, forced her to pull over. She'd barely made it out of the car before the nausea overtook her. She vomited on the side of the road, gasping for air, her hands clutching her head as the tears finally came. A scream had ripped from her throat, raw and guttural, but it had quickly dissolved into sobs. 

She wasn’t sure how long she had stayed there, shaking with shock and horror.

There was a light knock on the door, pulling her from her thoughts. Bulma jolted, her hand instinctively flying to the gun she’d stashed in the top drawer of her desk. She froze, her pulse racing.

The door creaked open, and her mother’s familiar face peeked inside.

Bulma blinked, her mind snapping back into focus. She let out a breath, mentally berating herself. Right. Because an assassin would totally knock first. Honestly, Bulma.

“Dear, I know you’re busy, but I thought you’d like to know—your handsome man is waking up."

"He’s awake!?" Bulma nearly shouted, shooting up from her desk.

Panchy nodded. "That sweet Kakarot just told me. Oh, he is such a good boy. I tried to get him to stay for tea but he had to dash,” Panchy said, her tone light. “He said the prince still isn’t well, though. Maybe you should convince him to go back to bed.” Panchy paused, her gaze softening as she took in her daughter's appearance. "Maybe both of you should go back to bed." She gave her daughter an assessing look. “Sweetheart, is everything alright?”

That was a loaded question. And not one Bulma had time to consider at the moment.

Bulma scowled, ran a hand through her messy hair. "I’m fine, I’m not tired.”

That was a lie. She was exhausted—bone-deep, soul-draining exhausted—but the thought of sleep twisted her stomach in knots. Closing her eyes just meant more nightmares. More panic. A small voice in the back of her mind wondered if this was anything like what Vegeta had endured under Frieza. Her own fear, her restless nights—they were only a fraction, an infinitesimal sliver, of what he’d lived through. And yet, somehow, he had survived. Found strength somewhere deep inside to keep going, to keep fighting. 

He truly was incredible.

Panchy’s soft, knowing smile only made it worse. It had a way of making Bulma feel like a little girl again, like her mother could see right through her. "Alright, dear. But if you need anything, I'm here."

Without another word, Bulma dashed past her, heart hammering as she sprinted down the hall to his room.

Vegeta was sitting up in bed, his chest heaving with effort, muscles tensed and coiled like a predator ready to strike—but his strength was failing him. His hands gripped the edge of the mattress, knuckles white, trembling with the strain. He tried to swing his legs over the side, but his body betrayed him—slow, sluggish, like he was fighting his own limbs with every inch he gained.

Still… to see him awake, after how close he’d come to death… her vision blurred with the sudden rush of emotion. Gratitude. Relief. It welled up inside her like a flood, threatening to spill over.

"Vegeta, stop!" she cried, rushing to his side, her hand instinctively reaching for his shoulder. “You’ve got to take it easy!”

But he shrugged her off, a snarl ripping from his throat.

"Don’t touch me," he rasped, his voice raw, dark with anger. His body collapsed back onto the bed, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. "The last thing I need is your help."

Bulma froze, the sting of his rejection cutting deep. She pulled her hand back, as if burned, but stayed by his side.

"Fuck off," he muttered, his voice hoarse. 

A small part of her, the foolish part, had hoped—stupidly—that when he woke up, they could start over. Fix what had been broken between them. But it was clear now that Vegeta wanted nothing to do with her. The coldness in his eyes said as much.

Her heart twisted painfully in her chest. She swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing herself to keep it together. It was her own fault he didn’t want her anymore. It was her fault he had been hurt. If she had just been honest with him from the beginning, if she hadn’t arrogantly assumed that she could fix everything, that she knew better than him… he never would have been in that position. He never would have had to meet with Zoya. He never would have been poisoned.

His breathing came out in short, ragged bursts, his jaw clenched as he tried, once more, to stand. But his legs gave out again, crumpling under him. "Dammit!" His fist pounded the bed, but it was a helpless, frustrated gesture, so unlike the powerful warrior she knew.

Her heart ached as she watched him.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” she said quietly, biting back the emotion in her voice. “Just take it slo–”

"Leave me alone!" Vegeta snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a whip.

Bulma’s temper flared. "Fine, be an ass! Fall off the bed and crack your head open—see if I care!"

She whirled around and stormed out of the room.

Later that day, Bulma sat on the edge of her bed, thinking about how to address things with Vegeta.

"Come on, Bulma," she whispered to herself, gripping the edge of the mattress. "You’ve faced worse than an angry Saiyan prince. Just go. Talk to him. He’ll have to listen if it’s about the alliance."

She stood up, squaring her shoulders as if preparing for battle, and headed toward the door. But when she reached the guest room, her heart lurched. The bed was empty, the sheets rumpled where he had been, the room was silent and cold.

He was gone.

Of course he’s gone, she thought bitterly, clenching her fists. But she had a feeling she knew exactly where he had drug himself off to the moment he was able to stand up. He wouldn’t just lie around and rest when he could be beating himself half to death in the Gravity Chamber.

Anger burned inside her. She was trying to help him, trying to fix this mess. The least he could do was not fucking kill himself pushing himself too hard.

She grabbed her keys, not caring that it was late, and stormed out to her car. As she sped away from Capsule Corp toward Vegeta’s estate, she looked in her rear view mirror to the darkening sky. She could just make out faint shadows following her, darting in and out of the clouds.

Saiyan guards. Of course.

Raditz's words echoed in her mind: "Don't worry. I promise you, no one else saw." Her gut twisted in anxiety, but she shook the thought off. She needed to focus. She could spiral later, once the alliance was seccure.

By the time she reached Vegeta’s estate, the guards were gone—or at least hidden from view. The gates swung open for her without any resistance, which she supposed was a good sign. She was a familiar face around here by now, and frankly, if anyone did try to stop her, she was ready to floor it and let them deal with the consequences.

Outside the main building, Nappa and Raditz were waiting for her. Nappa's expression was as unfriendly as ever, though she noted, with some surprise, that the fury in his eyes seemed… toned down. He didn’t look like he wanted to tear her limb from limb this time—more like he’d settle for a good, solid punch.

It was a strange detail, and for a moment, she found herself thrown off by it.

“What are you doing here?” Nappa growled, stepping forward with his arms crossed, the heavy lines of his face twisted into a scowl.

"I have urgent intel for Vegeta," Bulma shot back, planting her feet and standing her ground. "And before you even think about saying no, I’m not leaving until I speak to him. Got it?"

Nappa’s scowl deepened, but there was a flicker—something in his eyes that wasn’t quite as hostile as his tone. She couldn’t quite place it, but it made her hesitate, wondering if she was seeing things.

Raditz, lounging casually against a nearby wall, straightened with a grin. “Easy, Nappa,” he said, all mock placation as he sauntered forward. “No need to get your tail in a twist.” His gaze slid over Bulma, his eyes glinting with something between amusement and curiosity. “Let’s hear what the Earth woman has to say.”

Nappa’s glare shifted to Raditz, his jaw tightening. "She’s not supposed to be here. Prince Vegeta doesn’t want—"

"Prince Vegeta can speak for himself," Bulma interrupted, her voice sharp. "I’m not handing over this intel to anyone but him. Not you. Not Raditz. Him."

Raditz chuckled, exchanging a sly glance with Nappa. “She’s got a point, you know. He’s not exactly the type to appreciate someone ‘filtering’ his messages.” He turned back to Bulma, his grin widening, a hint of something darker in his eyes. “Come on, Nappa. Let her through. If she tries anything, you can always shoot her.”

Raditz winked, the gesture loaded with meaning. Was he trying to be funny, or was he reminding her that he knew exactly what she’d done to Zoya? Bulma’s pulse quickened. And in that moment, she decided that no matter if Raditz was an ally or not, she did not like him.

Bulma glared at Raditz before turning her full attention to Nappa.

The tall Saiyan let out a frustrated huff, stepping aside with visible reluctance. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice rough but lacking the bite she’d come to expect. His expression remained hardened, but there was a flicker of something beneath the surface, the way he looked from her to Raditz—it was a calculated look, as if he was contimplating something. She didn’t know what to make of it, but it made her skin prickle, as though there was an unspoken layer of tension she was only half-aware of.

But Bulma didn’t waste time trying to figure him out. She had enough to think about right now. She brushed past both of them, ignoring Raditz’s smug grin and the subtle, watchful intensity in Nappa’s gaze as she walked away from them.

Her instincts had been right. Vegeta was in the gravity chamber.

Of course he is, she thought as she approached the reinforced doors. The idiot was probably training beyond his abilities, pushing his body past the point of reason.

Her chest tightened with worry. With a few quick commands, she overrode the gravity chamber’s controls. The familiar hum of the machinery came to a sudden halt and she heard a roar of frustration from within.

A moment later, the door opened, and there he was.

Vegeta leaned heavily against the frame, his body drenched in sweat, muscles trembling from the exertion. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving as if each breath was a battle in itself. He was barely able to stand, but his eyes—those fierce, dark eyes—burned with frustration and anger.

"This had better be fucking good," he growled, his voice thick with exhaustion.

Bulma crossed her arms over her chest, meeting his gaze with defiance. "Look, you’ve made it perfectly clear how much you hate me. Cool. I get it. But do you still want this alliance to work or not?" She tapped her foot, waiting for his response.

Vegeta stared at her, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowing as if weighing her words. Then, after a long, tense moment, he gave a single, sharp nod.

"Good," Bulma said, her voice firm. "Then come with me, we need to talk."

Vegeta's brow furrowed in suspicion. He leaned against the doorframe, trying to appear casual, but the strain in his legs betrayed him. "What do you think we’re doing now?" he snapped. "We can talk right here."

Bulma’s lips pressed into a tight line. "No, we can't." She glanced behind her. "In my car. We'll talk there."

Vegeta snorted, the sound dripping with disdain. "I’m not getting in a fucking car," he spat, the disdain twisting into something more heated, more stubborn. "I don’t need to hide like some coward in one of your… contraptions."

Bulma rolled her eyes, exasperated but refusing to back down. "I'm afraid you'll just have to get over it."

Vegeta’s eyes narrowed, flashing dangerously. He tilted his head, a cold smirk pulling at his lips. "Or," he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "I could just fly us somewhere to talk." His tone was half a taunt, as if daring her to challenge him. "8,000 feet up in the air private enough for you?"

She met his stare, her mouth twitching with annoyance. "Fly? You can barely walk," she shot back, crossing her arms tighter over her chest. "I'm not even sure how you made it home. Did you crawl? How exactly do you plan on flying anywhere in your condition, let alone with me?"

Vegeta’s smirk widened. "You doubt me?"

The almost-flirtatious tone in his voice caught her off guard. For a split second, it was like how it used to be—before she had ruined everything by keeping secrets. Her heart ached, the longing for what they'd once had washing over her. But before she could respond, his expression darkened, and the smirk faltered. The teasing edge vanished, replaced by that same cold detachment she'd come to expect.

"Never mind," he muttered, turning slightly away, his body still leaning heavily on the door. "Just tell me what you know."

Bulma swallowed against the sting of his coldness, the familiar ache of frustration and sadness gnawing at her chest. She let out a breath, willing her voice to stay steady. "Vegeta, I'm serious. Look..." She paused, swallowing her pride. "Can we please just talk? There’s... There's a traitor in your midst and I have the proof. We don’t know who we can trust right now. There could be eyes and ears… everywhere. My car is secure. Please."

He was silent for a beat, his eyes narrowing as if weighing her words. Then, with a low grunt of frustration, he pushed himself off the doorframe, wincing slightly. "Fine," he growled, his voice tight. "Lead the way."

Chapter Text

Vegeta was trying to walk as if nothing was wrong, but Bulma could see the stiffness in his steps, the slight tremor in his hands as he gripped the door handle. He climbed into the passenger seat of Bulma’s car, every movement betraying his exhaustion despite his efforts to mask it. She let him settle in, her eyes flicking briefly to Nappa and Raditz, who stood just outside the car.

Nappa’s face was a mask of barely-contained contempt, his jaw clenched tight as he glared at her, looking as though he’d rather rip her apart than let her drive off with the prince. Raditz, on the other hand… his expression was harder to read. There was something calculating in his gaze, a flicker of curiosity—or maybe suspicion—that made Bulma’s stomach tighten. She quickly looked away, sliding into the driver’s seat and shutting the door with a quiet but definitive click.

She started the car, pulled away from the estate. Her hands tightened on the wheel as she drove aimlessly down the back roads, keeping to the darker, quieter paths that wove through the countryside. For a few minutes, silence filled the car, thick and heavy. Bulma risked a glance at Vegeta, but he was staring straight ahead, his face unreadable, his body tense.

Her mind drifted to that night—him stumbling into her bedroom, delirious, fighting ghosts from his past and yet… flirting with her, in his own strange, fractured way. She could still hear his words, clear as day. “The future queen must speak the language of her people.”

Her heart stumbled, an ache flaring in her chest. Had he meant it? Or was it just the poison talking, twisting his thoughts? Maybe it was a truth he would never admit in the cold light of day… a truth that had been buried before she ruined everything between them. She forced herself to focus on the road, fighting back the surge of regret that welled up inside her.

And then there was Zoya. The memory of pulling the trigger, of watching Zoya crumple, was fresh, raw. Bulma glanced at Vegeta out of the corner of her eye, a wave of guilt washing over her. She wanted to tell him, wanted to come clean and strip away the last of the secrets that had poisoned their relationship in the first place. But Raditz’s warning echoed in her mind, urging restraint.

Not yet. Vegeta needs his focus on the tournament, Raditz had said. Zoya’s death is only going to complicate things, especially with the upcoming arrivals from Vegetasei’s Great Houses.

She knew he was right. The tournament was more than just a spectacle; it was a political event, a carefully orchestrated opportunity for Earth and Vegetasei to find common ground through their shared love of combat. High-ranking Earth officials would be there, along with key figures from Vegetasei—House Choy among them. All eyes would be on Vegeta, analyzing his every move. If he found out about Zoya’s betrayal and chose to retaliate, it could spark a diplomatic disaster, unraveling everything they’d worked to build.

 Waiting, as much as it pained her, would give House Vegeta the upper hand. They couldn’t afford an Earth-Saiyan conflict before the tournament, not with the whole galaxy watching.

Vegeta’s eyes narrowed, his face a mask of cold fury as he scanned the data on her phone. Every so often, his fingers twitched as if barely restraining the urge to crush the device in his hand. Bulma sat tensely beside him, watching the anger build in his expression, feeling the oppressive force of his rage filling the small space between them.

After what felt like an eternity, Vegeta let out a low, dangerous growl. “A traitor… from my own ranks.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but the venom in it was unmistakable. He tossed her phone back into her lap with barely a glance, his fists clenching on his knees. “Someone under my command has been feeding Terup and that… human scum … information behind my back?”

Bulma swallowed, her throat dry. "Yes. And it’s not just intel—they’re moving supplies, too. They're setting you up, Vegeta. Setting us up. This isn’t some minor betrayal; it’s a calculated move to destabilize House Vegeta and fracture the alliance with Earth."

She took a shaky breath, steadying herself. "If they succeed, it won’t just be you who’s humiliated. Earth will be dragged into chaos. The Red Ribbon Syndicate and House Terup are working together to create an incident big enough to turn Earth’s officials against the alliance. They want the world to see Saiyans as unstable, violent—something to be feared, not allied with. And if public opinion shifts, if Earth’s leaders start doubting this partnership... they’ll start pulling away. They’ll break ties with Vegetasei, leaving you isolated and vulnerable."

Her voice softened, almost pleading. "This is bigger than you or me. They’re not just undermining House Vegeta—they’re trying to rip apart everything we’ve built together."

Vegeta’s gaze turned to her, fierce and unyielding. For a second, she thought she saw a flicker of something—maybe gratitude, maybe relief—but just as quickly, his expression hardened again, leaving only the familiar wall of pride and fury. “You think I don’t understand the gravity of this?” he snapped.

She clenched her jaw, biting back the urge to snap at him, to remind him she had already tried to warn him and he hadn’t listened to her.

Vegeta’s fists trembled as he exhaled sharply, his gaze fixed out the windshield, staring into the darkness beyond as if it could somehow provide answers. “House Terup has always been ambitious, but this…” He shook his head. “It’s a coward’s tactic.”

The car fell into silence again, the quiet hum of the engine the only sound between them. Bulma’s eyes flicked to him, noting the tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders were tensed. She wanted to reach out, say something to cut through the tension, but her mind was a jumble of words that felt inadequate.

Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Vegeta broke the silence.

“I don’t remember that night,” he muttered, his tone dark, almost resentful. He was still looking out the window, as if the view would somehow shield him from admitting this vulnerability. “After I met with Zoya… everything’s a blank.” His voice was lower now, almost a whisper, but there was a sharp edge to it. “I know I ended up at Capsule Corp. But why… did I come to you?”

Bulma’s heart skipped a beat. She knew she couldn’t lie to him—not again. She took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully. “You showed up at my house. You were… out of sorts.” She swallowed, memories of his haunted expression, the disoriented look in his eyes, flashing through her mind. “You weren’t yourself, Vegeta. I let you rest in one of the guest rooms. I thought… I thought you’d want to sleep it off.”

He turned to look at her, his gaze piercing, searching her face for any hint of dishonesty. “And that’s all?”

She hesitated, guilt clawing at her insides. Part of her wanted to come clean about Zoya, about what had happened in the woods. But Raditz’s words echoed in her mind, reminding her that this wasn’t the right time. Not now. 

“Yes,” she replied softly. 

For a moment, his expression softened, his eyes losing some of their usual hardness. But the vulnerability only lasted a second before he closed himself off again, his walls snapping back up like armor. He snorted, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “Well. I’m surprised you had it in you to be this honest with me this time. It must have been very difficult for you.”

The words felt like a slap, cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. Bulma clenched her fists, her own anger bubbling up. “Look, I get it, okay?” she said, her voice tight. “I know I’ve messed up. But this isn’t about us. This is about the threat to Vegetasei and Earth.”

Vegeta scoffed, leaning back against the seat, his gaze still fixed forward. “So what would you have me do, Woman?” he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Thank you for uncovering a traitor in my ranks? Applaud you for dragging Kakarot into this? Or maybe you’d like me to give you a medal for saving me from my own stupidity ?”

The bitterness in his voice stung, but she forced herself to stay calm. “I don’t need your gratitude, Vegeta. But I do need you to understand how serious this is. If Terup and the Syndicate are planning something at the tournament, they’re not going to make a move without setting the stage first. We need to be ready.”

He fell silent, his expression thoughtful, calculating. She could practically hear the gears turning in his mind as he pieced together a plan. Finally, he spoke, his tone grim. “House Terup’s leaders and other key figures from Vegetasei will be arriving soon for this… tournament,” he muttered. “It’s supposed to be a diplomatic gesture, a show of camaraderie between our worlds.”

Bulma nodded. “They might be using it as cover. They’ll have their allies right there, in plain sight. And they know everyone will be watching. The tournament will be the perfect stage for them to attempt to challenge or humiliate you—and to fracture the alliance.”

Vegeta’s jaw tightened, his lips curling into a sneer. “Let them try,” he growled. “They think they can disgrace me in front of the empire? I’ll show them what it means to challenge the Saiyan Prince.”

The fierce determination in his voice sent a shiver through her. For a moment, he looked like the Vegeta she’d fallen for—unyielding, proud, the embodiment of Saiyan resilience. But then, his gaze flicked over to her, and the ice returned.

“We’re done here,” he said sharply. “I have preparations to make. And I don’t need you sticking your nose into any more of this, do you understand?”

But before he could get out of her car, Bulma reached for him. 

“Wait,” she said, voice so soft it surprised even her.

Vegeta stilled, but refused to look at her.

At this point she felt like she had nothing left to lose. Vegeta already hated her, it wasn’t like he could hate her any more, right?

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” Bulma whispered, her voice barely holding steady. She glanced down, swallowing hard as she forced herself to keep going. “I’m sorry my dishonesty hurt you, and made things worse with the Council. It was…” Her throat tightened, and she struggled to hold back tears. “I wasn’t doing it to be malicious. I thought I was protecting you. But it was wrong, and I regret it more than you’ll ever know. I never should have kept it from you.”

As the words spilled out, something inside her shifted, a weight lifting despite everything. 

For the first time, she resolved to be completely honest. About everything—the choices she’d made, what happened to Zoya, even the feelings she harbored for him. 

Raditz be damned. Keeping secrets hadn’t protected Vegeta before; it wasn’t going to help now. Vegeta had more self-control than most gave him credit for. He wouldn’t act impulsively just because of what Zoya had done. 

Raditz was a fool if he couldn’t see that. Kakarot trusted Vegeta implicitly, and it was time everyone else, herself included, showed him that same trust.

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” she said, her voice stronger this time.

Vegeta turned his head, finally looking at her. His gaze was guarded, cold, and unreadable, his expression as hard as steel. But at least he was listening. “Spit it out, then,” he said, his tone clipped.

The words tumbled out faster than she’d planned. “You were completely out of it when you showed up at my window that night,” she began, swallowing against the lump in her throat. “At first, I thought you were just drunk. But it became clear pretty quickly that… that you’d been drugged. Or poisoned. You were…” She trailed off, her voice catching. Vegeta’s pride was everything to him, and the last thing she wanted was to remind him that he’d been laid bare before her yet again, vulnerable in a way he’d never chosen. But he deserved the truth.

“At first, you asked me where Blake was,” she continued, a small, sad smile flickering across her face. “You… I think you wanted to hurt him. But then you started hallucinating. You thought… you thought you were seeing Frieza.”

At the mention of Frieza, Vegeta’s face darkened, his jaw clenching as he looked away, staring hard out the windshield. He didn’t say anything—didn’t tell her to shut up or to hurry with her explanation. He just sat there, silent and tense, his profile sharp in the dim light. 

Bulma’s fingers twitched with the urge to reach across the console and take his hand, to comfort him somehow, but she knew he would only recoil.

She took a steadying breath. “You started to decline, Vegeta,” she said, her voice breaking despite her efforts to hold it together. “Really, really quickly. I… I thought I was going to lose you.” She paused, fighting back a surge of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her again. “I didn’t know what was happening, and I was terrified. So I confronted Zoya. I asked her what she’d done to you.”

That got his attention. “You confronted one of the leaders of your world’s most powerful criminal organizations?” His scrutiny was intense, so much so that she could barely meet his eyes. His stare was like a physical weight, unrelenting, dissecting every part of her.

“I had to know what she did to you,” Bulma replied, voice resolute.

He didn’t look away, eyes narrowed as he pushed further. “And what did you learn?”

“Nothing,” she said bitterly. “She refused to tell me anything, and then I…”

“And then you what?”

Tears pricked her eyes, the memory sharp and painful. “She admitted to drugging you. She wanted you to attack Robert Blake, to make you look like a monster, to sabotage the Accords.” Her voice cracked. “I thought you were dying, and I knew… I knew it was my fault. If I’d been honest from the start, you wouldn’t have been in that position. You wouldn’t have felt pressured to meet with her.”

The flood of emotion broke free, and she pressed her palms against her eyes, unable to hold back the tears. The car filled with the sound of her muffled sobs, and for a long moment, Vegeta said nothing, just waiting until her breathing evened out.

When she’d finally calmed enough to speak, he asked quietly, “Bulma… what did you do?”

She took a shaky breath, forcing herself to meet his gaze. 

“I killed her,” she whispered. A bitter laugh escaped her as she looked away, her eyes fixed on the darkness outside her window. “She wouldn’t tell me what she’d done to you, and she was saying… awful things. Lies. So I shot her.” She paused, her voice dropping to a murmur. “Raditz saw. He… he helped me get rid of the body. He said I shouldn’t tell you yet. That it’d be better to wait until after the tournament.”

“You killed Zoya Popova-Chen.” Vegeta’s voice was calm, almost clinical.

Bulma couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She took a shallow breath, answered, “Yes.”

"Does anyone else besides Raditz know?" he pressed.

"No, I-I don't think so."

He nodded. "Good. Keep it that way." With that, he opened the door and stepped out, launched himself into the sky. 

So that was it? That was all he had to say?

Bulma sat there, gripped the wheel and tried not to hyperventilate. Beyond the windshield, the empty countryside stretched out like an abyss. The darkness felt alive, closing in on her, amplifying the emptiness he’d left behind.

Chapter Text

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." – Edmund Burke

The tournament was set to begin tomorrow afternoon, and despite knowing full well that Vegeta didn’t want her there, Bulma didn’t particularly care. He needed her help, whether he was willing to admit it or not. Public perception of the relationship between the two worlds would make or break the Earth-Saiyan alliance, and Bulma wasn’t about to give the Syndicate, House Terup, or anyone else the opportunity to use the tournament to ruin this.

 All of Earth and the Coalition of Planets would be watching, and with so many unknowns still hanging over them—like the identity of the Saiyan traitor and the possibility of a hidden plan to sabotage the event—she wasn’t about to sit this one out.

Which is exactly why she was about to add theft of government property to her growing list of crimes. A list that, so far, included breaching the Earth-Saiyan Accords and… murder. Not exactly where she’d pictured herself at this point in her life, but hey, it could always be worse.

Probably.

As she arrived at Fort Einheitz, Bulma made her way through the base, weaving through clusters of soldiers on the training grounds, walking past tanks and advanced aircrafts. At the heart of the compound stood the high-security facility she often worked in, the one that housed the IESG. She was just going to… "borrow" it for a while to ensure everyone who attended the tournament tomorrow would be safe. She’d bring back the components she took on Monday. No one had to know it was her. No one had to know it went missing.

Well. Unless she ended up having to use it, of course. But she’d cross that bridge when she got to it. Thousands of lives could be at stake here. It was worth the… ten to twenty years sentence she’d face. 

She had to take a deep breath to stop herself from laughing hysterically or bursting into tears.

Just as she was passing one of the main thoroughfares, Bulma spotted Colonel Mason in conversation with Nappa. She nearly paused, her instincts prickling, but forced herself to keep walking. Her gaze flickered back to them—and that’s when she noticed Raditz standing with them, too.

Raditz caught her eye, raising a hand in casual greeting as she passed.

Bulma managed a stiff nod, her stomach tightening with unease. She tried to keep her pace steady, ignoring the cold sliver of anxiety twisting in her gut. Raditz wouldn’t tell anyone about Zoya, she reminded herself. After all, Raditz had helped her cover it up. He was an accessory now. Though the sight of him chatting with Mason— that traitor —unsettled her more than she cared to admit. What could he and Nappa be talking to him about?

She quickened her steps, but tried to be careful not to appear as though she were rushing. Bulma just needed to get her hands on an IESG booster or two and a few wristbands, then get the hell out of there.

The high-security building loomed ahead, its entrance marked by a series of reinforced steel doors and a heavily-manned security checkpoint. Bulma approached the guard station, handed her ID badge over to the officer on duty. He scrutinized her for a moment, then waved her through.

Once inside, she passed through the remaining layers of security: retinal scans, fingerprint verification. 

The walls felt like they might close in on her as she ventured deeper into the facility. The sterile, fluorescent-lit hallways amplified the silence, their clinical coldness only worsening the knot of anxiety in her stomach.

Her nerves were beginning to fray. Bulma ducked into the restroom and she leaned against the counter for a moment, trying to collect herself. She glanced up at her reflection in the mirror, her pulse pounding in her ears.

She looked good. Amazing, even. The light blue suit she wore was pristine, sharp, professional. Her hair, styled in a neat French twist, gleamed under the fluorescent lights. It was a miracle, really—the things properly applied makeup could hide. Like the dark circles that had carved trenches beneath her eyes, or the lifeless, ashen pallor of her skin. But no amount of concealer could mask the haunted, anxious look in her eyes.

Out of habit more than necessity, she pulled lipstick from her purse and reapplied it. A soft matte pink—it paired well with her hair, adding just enough color to make her appear composed, lively. She smoothed down a few stubborn flyaways, trying not to focus on how clammy her palms felt or the slight tremor in her hands.

She stared at herself a moment longer, drawing in a deep breath. “You’re doing the right thing,” she whispered under her breath, as if saying it aloud would make it true. “Everything will work out.”  

It has to, she thought. There was no other option.

Gathering her resolve, she stepped out of the restroom and headed for her lab, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. As she entered, she scanned the room, hoping—praying—to find it empty. Lunchtime usually meant a quiet lab, and for a moment, she allowed herself to feel a flicker of relief.

But that flicker died the second she spotted Ginny at the far end of the room.

Her assistant sat at her workstation, completely engrossed in the tablet before her. Bulma plastered on a cheerful smile, suppressing the wave of irritation rising in her chest. “Hey, Ginny! Aren’t you taking a break?”

Ginny barely glanced up, her fingers tapping at the screen. “Already did,” she said, her voice clipped and distracted. “Just catching up on the analysis from yesterday’s test results. I want to get the data sorted before the next batch comes in.”

“Of course,” Bulma said, nodding as if she understood, as if she wasn’t mentally screaming. Perfect, she thought bitterly. How the hell am I supposed to store what I need in a capsule and sneak it out with her sitting right there?

Security cameras and high-level clearance protocols were manageable; she’d prepared for those. But an eyewitness? That was an entirely different problem. If Ginny saw her stashing the IESG booster in a CC capsule, there would be no smooth-talking her way out of it. Ginny was sharp. And, worse, professional to a fault.

Bulma forced herself to stay calm, moving to her own workstation, pretended to busy herself. She shuffled through data files, adjusted a few settings on her console, and opened a random program on her computer, staring at it with feigned focus. Occasionally, she scribbled nonsense in her notebook. 

But Ginny didn’t budge. She remained rooted in place, her attention glued to her tablet.

Dammit, Ginny. Bulma ground her teeth, trying not to let her frustration show. Don’t you have a phone call to make? Or a bathroom to visit? She stole another glance, silently willing her assistant to leave, but Ginny remained steadfastly in place, infuriatingly diligent as always.

Minutes dragged by, each one stretching into an eternity. Bulma fiddled with her purse, pretended to scan inventory on her tablet. She even opened a drawer and began needlessly rearranging its contents, all while casting sidelong glances at Ginny, hoping— praying —for some kind of distraction. Her patience was wearing thin.

But Ginny stayed exactly where she was. No calls. No bathroom breaks. No blessed interruptions. Just sitting there, impossibly professional and maddeningly focused.

This is torture, Bulma thought, gripping a tool just a bit too tightly. Come on, just one minute. That’s all I need.

Bulma considered asking Ginny to fetch something from another room, but the thought felt risky—too obvious. Or perhaps Bulma was just beyond paranoid at this point. So she waited. And waited. She cycled through every mundane task she could think of, all while watching the clock inch forward.

Finally, Ginny’s tablet chimed. She stood, muttering something about needing to take a call. Bulma’s heart leapt as she watched her assistant leave the lab, but her relief was short-lived. The faint sound of voices down the hall signaled that the others were already returning from their lunch breaks.

Bulma clenched her jaw, her moment slipping away. She’d have to try again later. That evening. Dammit.

But the opportunity never came. By 2 p.m., Bulma had to leave the base to check on a pressing matter at Capsule Corp. When she tried to return later that afternoon, she was stopped at the gate by an MP.

“Sorry, ma’am. No one’s allowed in or out,” the officer said firmly.

“What? Why not?” Bulma demanded, her voice edged with frustration.

“Can’t say,” the guard replied, his expression as unreadable as stone. “Orders.”

She stared at him, her pulse quickening. “Look, maybe you don’t know who I am. If you would just get y—”

“Not today,” the guard interrupted, his tone final. “Please turn around.”

Bulma clenched her steering wheel, her heart sinking. Something had happened after she left the base—something big enough to lock it down completely. It didn’t matter what she said or who she threatened; they weren’t going to let her back in.

Fuck.

She turned her car around and immediately called Kakarot. He picked up on the first ring.

“Hey, Bulma!” His tone was bright, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Do you know what’s going on at the base?” she asked, her voice tight, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.

“No idea,” Kakarot said. “Why, what’s up?”

“They’re not letting anyone in or out,” she snapped, gripping the steering wheel hard enough that her knuckles turned white.

“Huh. That’s weird,” he replied, his casual tone doing nothing to soothe her fraying nerves. “I’ll ask Prince Vegeta.”

Bulma exhaled sharply, forcing herself to stay calm. “Thanks,” she muttered before hanging up. She tossed her phone onto the passenger seat, her mind racing. What the hell had happened in the few hours she had been gone? If she couldn’t get in, she couldn’t use the IESG at the tournament. She couldn’t protect everyone from the Syndicate, from House Terup. What the hell was she going to do now?

That night, Bulma stood on her back porch, the chill of the evening air doing little to cool the heat simmering inside her. She took a long drag from her cigarette and glared at her phone’s screen as she watched the news.

The headline at the bottom of the screen read: “Delegates from Vegetasei Arrive Ahead of Earth-Vegetasei Martial Arts Tournament.” The video cut to footage of sleek Saiyan ships descending through Earth’s atmosphere, their arrival clearly a carefully staged show of power. The feed then transitioned to a close-up of Prince Vegeta, clad in his royal armor, striding alongside a young Saiyan woman and her entourage.

Bulma’s stomach twisted uncomfortably as she watched them. The woman was striking, her long, wild hair cascading down her back in untamed waves, her armor emphasizing her lithe, muscular build. She was smaller than Vegeta, and there was a sharpness to her presence that demanded attention. Her delicate features seemed almost at odds with the fierce intelligence in her piercing eyes.

It was obvious to Bulma that she was Lady Tatsora of House Choy.

She’s beautiful , Bulma thought bitterly, a sour taste rising in her throat that had nothing to do with the cigarette smoke.

The news anchor’s voice droned on, a polished, artificial excitement lacing his tone. “Prince Vegeta, heir to the Saiyan throne, was seen today personally welcoming representatives from House Choy to Earth. Among the dignitaries is Lady Tatsora, one of the most prominent and respected figures from Vegetasei. She’s rumored to have a close relationship with the prince and has often been regarded as an influential leader within the Saiyan elite. Today’s warm welcome signifies the growing strength of the Earth-Vegetasei alliance, particularly ahead of tomorrow’s highly anticipated martial arts tournament, which promises to be a spectacular display of the shared passion for combat between our two worlds.”

Bulma snorted and flicked ash from her cigarette, her lips curling into a sarcastic sneer. “Oh, please,” she muttered under her breath. “ ‘Growing strength of the alliance.’ Sure. Nothing like a bunch of smug assholes in armor pretending they don’t want to stab each other in the back to really build trust.” She took another drag, her voice dropping into an exaggerated impression of the news anchor’s tone. “‘A spectacular display of shared passion for combat!’ Spare me .”

She exhaled sharply, smoke curling into the air as her thumb hovered over the screen, the clip replaying again automatically. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of Vegeta walking so closely beside Tatsora, their postures easy, their movements in sync. The familiarity between them grated at her nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

Bulma clenched her jaw and stubbed the cigarette down to the filter in the ashtray beside her, the motion sharp and angry. Without thinking, she pulled another from the pack on the table, but paused, staring at it between her fingers. Chain-smoking wasn’t going to solve anything. She hovered there for a moment, debating whether to light it or shove it back into the pack. Instead, with a frustrated sigh, she crushed it into the ashtray, unlit.

“Finally giving up that disgusting habit?” a voice called from the darkness, smooth and unmistakable.

Her heart skipped a beat, and her head snapped toward the sound. She knew that voice immediately. Vegeta.

She squinted into the shadows, her pulse quickening. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended, the anger and hurt she’d been bottling up spilling out unchecked. She didn’t bother to hide it. Why should she? He’d left her in the car after she poured her heart out to him, only for her to see him on the news, walking shoulder to shoulder with his perfect ex-fiancée like nothing had ever happened between them. 

He emerged from the shadows, stepping into the dim porch light. Her breath caught for a split second, though she’d never admit it. Somewhere between greeting the Saiyan delegates and now, he’d swapped his royal armor for Earth clothes—a simple pair of dark slacks and a fitted black t-shirt that clung to his frame in all the right ways. He looked… normal. Good. Too good. Almost like a regular person. Almost like someone she could’ve met under entirely different circumstances. Someone she could’ve had a simple, happy life with.

Her chest tightened at the thought, her heart aching with a wistful longing she hated herself for. What she wouldn’t give for them to just be two ordinary people, meeting by chance and falling in love, unburdened by war, politics, or betrayals.

She almost snorted out loud at her own foolishness. Stupid, wishful thinking never got anyone anywhere.

“Come to tell me off some more?” she asked, crossing her arms and throwing up her guard, her voice laced with sarcasm. She didn’t have the energy to deal with him—not after the day she’d had.

Vegeta ignored her question entirely, closing the distance between them with a single, fluid motion. In an instant, he was on the patio with her, standing just a few inches away.

She glanced over at him, taking him in against her better judgment. His face was drawn but unreadable, his usual scowl muted into something subtler. The faint light caught the sharp angles of his jaw, the furrow in his brow that seemed permanent. He looked exhausted but steady, like someone who had more thoughts than they knew what to do with.

He didn’t look at her, his gaze fixed on some invisible point in the distance. Typical. She rolled her eyes, already regretting the conversation she was sure he was about to start. She turned on her heel, intent on heading back inside.

“I don’t really feel like doing this right now,” she said, throwing the words over her shoulder as she moved toward the door. 

Vegeta grabbed her arm—not harshly, but firmly enough to stop her mid-step.

“We need to talk,” he said, his voice low but insistent.

“Save it for someone who–”

“ Please .”

Chapter Text

Bulma led Vegeta over to the seating area on the patio. He sat down across from her, set a small case down on the deck she hadn’t noticed he’d been carrying. He moved with ease now. It occurred to her that he seemed completely healed from Zoya's attack. After the terrible day she had, that, at least, was something to be thankful for.

Bulma sat in her chair, crossed her arms over her chest, and watched Vegeta. He wasn’t looking at her. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the chessboard sitting between them. The chess pieces were scattered across the board in mid-game. She had attempted a game against herself earlier in an effort to clear her mind. It hadn't helped at all.

She tapped a finger against her arm, impatient for him to speak.

This was the same spot they’d sat at last time—when they’d played a game together on this very patio. Back when things had been different. Better. Easier. She mentally corrected herself. No, it hadn’t been better. And things had only been easier because she’d been lying to him, hiding things from him.

But Bulma was too selfish to think that it was better this way. What good was her honesty if he hated her for it?

“A game with your father?” Vegeta guessed, his voice low and unhurried. 

Oh my god, Bulma thought, stunned. Is he making small talk right now? Seriously? Of all the things they needed to discuss, of all the ways he could start, this was what he led with? She blinked at him, tried to process it.

To anyone else it would appear casual. But Bulma knew better. Vegeta didn’t make small talk. And he certainly wasn’t one to beat around the bush. Was he… Was he nervous?

Bulma leaned back, her arms tightening across her chest. “No, against myself,” she said flatly. “What did you want to talk about?”

But Vegeta didn’t answer her question. He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees as he continued to stare at the board. His brow furrowed, his sharp eyes scanning the pieces with an intensity that made it look as though he were analyzing her entire life story. “You’re favoring white,” he said at last.

Bulma blinked again. “Excuse me?”

He gestured faintly at the board, one corner of his mouth twitching with what might’ve been a smirk. “White. You're playing offensively. You’ve got all your pawns pressed forward, but look at your queen. You’re being overly cautious. Waiting to react instead of committing to an attack.”

She frowned at the board, her stomach tightening. “What's your point?”

Vegeta tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving the pieces. “You’ve left your flanks wide open. You’re exposing yourself, hoping to bait an opponent into overcommitting so you can strike back. But what happens if they don’t take the bait?” He paused, then added dryly, “Or worse, what if they’ve already planned for it?”

Bulma opened her mouth, ready to argue, but the words caught in her throat. For a moment, she forgot they were even talking about chess. Her mind spun instead to the Syndicate, to House Terup, to the traitor still lurking somewhere among Vegeta’s ranks. She thought of Zoya’s death—of the heat of the moment when she pulled the trigger and the unrelenting anxiety that had followed. She thought of the IESG, now locked down at Fort Einheitz with no hope of retrieval. The missed opportunity to secure a device that could save thousands. She thought of Raditz and wondered how far his knowledge of her actions could take him if he chose to betray her. She thought of Nappa and his barely contained disdain for her from day one.

And then, as always, she thought of Vegeta and how it was painfully clear how much she still wanted him—even though she knew she had already lost him for good.

Nothing was working out. Not the way she’d planned. Not the way she’d hoped. 

He was right.

She scowled at him, feeling exposed in the worst way. This was all rich criticism coming from him. He hadn't even considered Terup could be a real threat until she'd shown him all the evidence. “Vegeta, enough,” she snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. “Just say what you came to say.”

But he didn’t speak. Instead, he reached forward, picked up one of the black chess pieces—a rook—and moved it across the board. His move was direct, aggressive. A straight path to confrontation.

Bulma narrowed her eyes at the board, thinking his move was reckless, stupid. She didn’t say anything, though. Vegeta wasn’t the type to play defensively, she already knew that. He didn’t overthink. He acted.

He finally broke the silence. “Are you still planning on going to the tournament?”

“I am.”

“You could get hurt,” he said, his tone neutral.

She wanted to say something biting, wanted to tell him that she’d already been hurt in more ways than one, but instead, her lips pressed into a thin line. When she spoke, her voice was cool and steady. “I don’t care.”

“That’s a lie,” he said without hesitation.

“No, it’s not,” she snapped, her tone defensive. “Nothing matters more than keeping my people safe.”

Vegeta’s eyes lingered on her for a long moment. Then, he gave a single nod, as though that was the only answer he needed. He said nothing else.

They continued to play, the clicking of the chess pieces the only sound between them. Bulma studied his moves carefully, trying to understand his strategy, but it wasn’t easy. He was bold, making plays she never would have considered. But they worked. His pieces advanced across the board.

It wasn’t long before he trapped her king.

“Checkmate,” he said quietly, sitting back in his chair as though the game had been no effort at all.

Bulma stared at the board, frustration bubbling in her chest, but she couldn’t deny what was right in front of her.

But instead of gloating, Vegeta reached down to the small case he’d brought with him. The polished metal glinted faintly in the patio light as he placed it before her.

Bulma froze, sensing its importance immediately. She glanced upward instinctively, scanning the dark skies for movement. “Your eyes in the sky—are they gone?”

He nodded once.

She hesitated, then reached for the case. It was small, cold to the touch. When she opened it, her breath caught. Inside was an IESG booster and three wristbands, neatly tucked into their own compartments.

Bulma stared at the equipment, her thoughts spinning.

“You’re not going to listen to a damn thing I say,” Vegeta said, his voice low and even. “You’re going to show up tomorrow, whether I want you to or not. So at least this way, you’ll be able to protect your people,” he said. “And yourself.”

She didn’t know what to say. Her throat tightened, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She willed herself not to cry, not in front of him.

Bulma blinked rapidly, trying to hold it together. She wanted to believe that he was doing this because he cared, but her rational mind pushed that thought away. He wasn’t doing it for her. He was doing it to salvage the alliance. To protect Vegetasei and Earth. To keep the tournament from turning into a political disaster. He was doing it because it was the right thing to do.

She closed the case and placed it gently on her lap, her fingers curling tightly around its edges as if it might vanish if she let go. No matter what she told herself, no matter how rational she tried to be, the gesture meant something. And it cut through her defenses like a blade. Her vision blurred as tears slipped free despite her best efforts, hot and stinging as they traced paths down her cheeks. She swiped at them quickly, angry at herself for being this vulnerable in front of him. It’s just exhaustion, she told herself. Exhaustion and relief. That’s all.

The silence that followed felt heavy. She didn’t know if it was the weight of his presence or her own spiraling emotions, but it was suffocating. The soft chirp of crickets and the faint rustle of wind in the trees were the only sounds, but they felt distant, muted by the storm building inside her.

She focused on the chessboard still sitting between them. Her thoughts spun in endless circles—of everything that had gone wrong, of everything she had done, of everything she hadn’t been able to fix.

Then, Vegeta’s voice cut through the quiet. Low, almost uncertain. “Why… did you do it?”

Bulma blinked, startled by the question. She looked at him, frowned. “Do what?”

“Why did you kill her?” he asked, his tone unreadable but quieter than usual. “Zoya. You had evidence against her. You could’ve easily turned it all over to the authorities. So why did you kill her?”

There was something in his voice, something she couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t his usual sharpness or anger. It was… softer. Hesitant. Like he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask but desperately needed to know. It caught her completely off guard.

Her breath hitched as she stared at him, her heart twisted painfully. She thought about lying, thought about deflecting, but what would be the point? She’d promised herself to be honest with him. No more secrets.

She met his gaze, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do you really have to ask?”

He didn’t flinch. Instead, his dark eyes held hers, searching. “Tell me,” he said, his voice raw and insistent.

Her chest felt tight, her throat constricting as the words clawed their way up. She didn’t want to say it. Saying it out loud would make it real, would make her vulnerable in a way she wasn’t sure she could handle. But the look in his eyes, the raw curiosity mixed with something she couldn’t name, broke down every wall she had left.

“Because I’m in love with you,” she said.

She looked away, let out a bitter laugh immediately after, a hollow, self-deprecating sound that carried every ounce of pain she’d been holding back. Another tear slipped down her cheek, and she swiped at it angrily with the back of her hand, hating how exposed and small she felt in that moment. She wanted to disappear, wanted to rewind the last few seconds and take the words back.

“I know it’s stupid,” she added, her voice trembling. “I know it doesn’t matter, and I know I ruined everything. But I love you. That’s why I did it. That’s why I shot her. Because she tried to hurt you. She tried to kill you. And I couldn’t… I couldn’t let her win. You mean everything to me. I didn’t… It doesn’t even matter that you hate me. I’d do it again.”

Her hands trembled as she clutched the case, her knuckles white. She stared down at it, focusing on the cold, solid feel of the metal under her fingers because she couldn’t bear to look at him. She couldn’t bear to see whatever reaction was playing out on his face—disdain, anger, indifference. Anything he gave her would feel like a dagger to the heart.

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. Her heart pounded in her ears, each beat growing louder and louder as the seconds stretched endlessly on. She waited, breathless, for him to say something. Anything.

And then suddenly, the table between them was pushed to the side. The scrape of wood against the deck startled her. The chessboard nearly toppled to the ground, pieces scattered in all directions. Her head snapped up, her pulse spiking. “Vegeta?” she said, startled.

He was on his knees before her. His head bowed, fists clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles had turned white. His entire frame was tense, his shoulders taut. And yet… he seemed to tremble, just barely, as if caught between restraint and collapse.

“Vegeta…” she whispered, her voice cracking. “What…?”

He cut her off before she could finish.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, his voice low, rough, almost shaking. “I’ve tried to push you away. I’ve told myself it was for your own good, that if I kept you at arm’s length, made you despise me, you’d be safe. That they wouldn’t try to hurt you again, wouldn’t see you as a way to get to me. But, I can't-” He shook his head, his gaze still fixed on the ground. “I can’t…”

Her breath hitched as his words sank in, a mixture of hope and disbelief swelling in her chest.

“Ikt brauro de,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Being apart from you… It’s unbearable. I am weak.”

Her heart ached at the rawness in his voice, at the cracks she could hear in the armor he’d spent years building around himself. She wanted to reach out, to touch him, but she was afraid to move, afraid to break this fragile moment between them.

She swallowed thickly, forcing herself to speak. “I thought…” Her voice wavered, but she pressed on. “You were so angry with me. I thought you hated me.”

At that, his fists tightened again, and he shook his head sharply. “I don’t hate you,” he said, his tone firm, almost anguished. “I’ve never hated you. I hate myself.”

His words hit her like a blow. She opened her mouth to speak, but he wasn’t finished.

“I hate my weakness. I hate that I’ve failed at every turn to protect what matters most. My position, my people… you.” He exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging just slightly, but still, he wouldn’t lift his head. “I am unworthy of my station. I am unworthy of you. I’ve failed to protect you, and yet… you have risked everything for me. And all I’ve done in return is hurt you.”

Tears blurred her vision again, but this time she didn’t fight them. She set the case down on the deck beside her and reached for him, her hands trembling as they found his.

He flinched at first, but he didn’t pull away. Slowly, reluctantly, his hands unfurled, and she took them in hers. They were warm and calloused, so much larger than her own. She held them tightly.

“Vegeta,” she said softly. “You don’t have to do anything to prove yourself to me. You don’t have to fight for my forgiveness, or my trust, or my love. You already have it. You always will.”

His head tilted up slightly. His eyes were half-lidded, his expression raw, vulnerable in a way she’d never seen before.

“I’m yours,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “No matter what happens. I’m yours.”

Bulma leaned forward, but before she could close the distance, Vegeta moved first, bridging the gap between them.

They kissed.

Chapter Text

"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places." – Ernest Hemingway

The tournament had just begun. Bulma’s private box had a great view of the action below through a floor-to-ceiling window that spanned the entire length of the room. The room itself was designed for comfort, with plush seating, a stocked bar in the corner, and multiple flat-screen televisions mounted on the walls to catch every detail. Each TV displayed different angles of the match that had just begun.

Bulma's eyes flicked between the screens, taking in the competitors. “Huh,” she murmured to herself. “Didn’t think I’d see him here.” Yamcha was crouched, ready to attack, a confident grin plastered across his face. His opponent was shorter, stockier—a man Bulma almost recognized. She frowned, trying to place him. Where had she seen him before? Maybe the base. She was pretty sure she’d seen him training with Kakarot a few times. 

The shorter man lunged at Yamcha, and the camera cut to a close-up of Yamcha sidestepping at the last second. She hadn’t thought about Yamcha much lately—but now, watching him fight, the memories of their past surfaced unbidden. She thought of how Vegeta had once mentioned seeing him at Ox’s gym training, but had never once seen her there before, even though she had claimed to enjoy fighting.

Her chest tightened, and she winced at the thought. Looking back, she could see all the cracks she’d ignored. Cracks she’d contributed to.

She didn’t really have time to worry about that right now, though. 

Bulma’s gaze shifted to another screen. The camera caught Vegeta standing near the raised platform. He was wearing his royal armor. His expression was stoic as ever, and there was a quiet intensity about him that always seemed to make her heart ache. The fighting stage was the centerpiece of the arena, but Vegeta paid it no mind. His attention was fixed on the sky above the open air stadium, his sharp gaze watching everything like a hawk. 

Bulma knew exactly what Vegeta was looking for. All the other representatives from the Saiyan Houses had already arrived—all except for House Terup. The omission wasn’t lost on her. She’d hoped, naively, that maybe they’d skip this public event altogether. But she knew better. It was too good to be true. They were probably waiting for something—the perfect moment to strike.

To do what, exactly, she still wasn’t sure. And that uncertainty clawed at her nerves. She shifted in her seat, smoothing the fabric of her athletic wear with trembling hands. At first she’d wanted to wear something sharp, something sexy, but opted for something more practical. Just in case. It was easier to run in sneakers that it was in heels.

Still, she needed to look calm, composed. She couldn’t afford to look uneasy, not here, not now. Besides, she and Vegeta had planned for this. As best they could, anyway.

Earlier that morning, while the stadium was still empty, Vegeta had methodically placed the IESG wristbands in key locations around the arena. He’d welded them in place so discreetly, no one would even know they were there unless they went looking. The booster, connected to the core of the shield back on base, was safely tucked away in Bulma’s oversized handbag, inconspicuous among her other belongings. Together, they had created an invisible shield that covered the entire stadium. Any energy blast—whether generated by a Saiyan, a machine, or something else—would be neutralized before it could cause harm. Hopefully.

Bulma told herself they were safe. She repeated it in her head like a mantra. We’re safe. We’ve got this. But her stomach twisted anyway. The Syndicate, House Terup, the traitor—they’d slipped past their defenses before. What was stopping them from doing it again?

“Come on, Krillin! What are you doing?” Chichi’s voice broke through Bulma’s spiraling thoughts, sharp and commanding. She looked at the woman standing near one of the monitors, gesturing furiously at the screen as she critiqued every move the shorter man made against Yamcha. “Stop trying to dodge! Close the distance! Lay him out flat!”

Bulma raised a brow, her lips twitching into a small smile despite herself. Saiyans apparently had a type. Chichi’s fiery attitude reminded her a bit of herself. 

Kakarot had insisted that Chichi join them in the private viewing room. Bulma guessed he hadn’t needed much help winning her over after all.

Kakarot approached Bulma, leaned toward her, grinned like an idiot. “Isn’t she great?” he whispered in Bulma’s ear, his voice far too loud to be discreet. “I’m gonna take her to my favorite barbeque restaurant later. They let you throw the peanut shells on the floor when you’re done eatin ‘em! Isn’t that awesome?”

Bulma cringed inwardly, though she managed to keep her smile in place. Oh, Kakarot. She glanced at him sideways, fighting the urge to pat him on the shoulder like a disappointed mom. 

Maybe he still needed a little help in the romance department.

She noticed the orange gi he was wearing—the one she’d helped him pick out a few weeks ago. Kakarot had been eager to participate in the tournament, practically vibrating with excitement when they’d discussed it. But when Vegeta had asked him to forgo the competition and act as Bulma’s personal guard, he’d agreed without hesitation. Bulma knew how much he’d been looking forward to fighting today, but his sense of duty had come first. She admired that about him.

I owe him, she thought to herself. A hundred matches. As many as he wants. He deserves that much for everything he’s done—for me, for the alliance.

She turned her gaze back to the window, looked up at the open sky. It was clear and cloudless, deceptively peaceful. 

But please, don’t let today be that day, she thought silently.

The door to the private box opened behind her, and her attention snapped back to the room, startled. She turned her head to see Nappa and Raditz entering, flanking someone much smaller. It was Lady Tatsora. Nappa looked a bit frazzled, Raditz appeared at ease. 

Behind them, another man in Saiyan armor followed. Bulma nearly did a double-take. That wasn’t a Saiyan, that was a human. He was tall, muscular, clearly a military type, but very obviously a human. She didn’t recognize him. She wondered if he was part of Earth’s military that had been sent to Vegetasei as part of the exchange between their two worlds. But what would he be doing guarding someone like Tatsora of House Choy?

Nappa and Raditz wore Saiyan armor as usual, but Tatsora… Tatsora had opted for Earth fashion. For someone who had never been here before, she sure knew how to dress. Bulma could feel her jaw tightening against her will. The Saiyan woman’s outfit looked great—a cropped white hoodie, a matching crop top and leggings in the same blue shade as Vegeta’s bodysuit, and pristine white Gucci sneakers. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she was carrying a Hermès Birkin bag casually on her arm, as though it were nothing. A Birkin. Bulma didn’t even have that one.

It took everything in her not to visibly work her jaw. Tatsora looked incredible and Bulma hated it. And to top it all off, Tatsora’s outfit practically mirrored her own athletic set—except Bulma had opted for red. Blood red. The same shade as Vegeta’s royal insignia. Maybe it wasn’t entirely a coincidence, but who cared? It looked good on her.

“Lady Tatsora,” Nappa said, sounding a bit flustered, “Prince Vegeta has readied a private room for you and your men, surely you would be more comforta–”

“Yes, I’m well aware, my men are quite happy to utilize it,” she said without so much as glancing at him. “And we thank the prince for his generous hospitality.”

Nappa tried again. “I’m sure His majesty would prefer–”

Again she cut him off. “And I’m sure I’ve donated enough money and resources to this mudball to sit where I please,” Lady Tatsora said. Nappa looked furious, but said nothing else.

“No offense, darling,” she said off-handedly to the human.

The human man inclined his head but seemed entirely unfazed by her insult.

Darling? Bulma thought, trying not to let her surprise and confusion show on her face.

Raditz and Nappa remained at the back of the room with the human soldier, silent and imposing. Tatsora, on the other hand, strode confidently toward her. Bulma’s irritation deepened as the woman paused by Kakarot, stared at him pointedly, then nodded toward Chichi. “Shoo,” Tatsora said, her tone clipped.

“Oh! Sure thing, Lady Tatsora,” Kakarot said, all too eager to comply. He jogged over to stand by Chichi, who was still shouting at the screen.

Bulma raised a brow, unimpressed. 

“Do you mind if I sit here?” Tatsora asked, her tone polite but clearly insincere. She didn’t wait for an answer before sinking gracefully into the seat beside Bulma. Tatsora tossed her long, wild hair over her shoulder with an air of effortless elegance that grated on Bulma’s nerves.

Bulma bit the inside of her cheek, forced a smile so tight it hurt. This bitch, she thought. This annoying, overconfident, gorgeous, perfect bitch.

“How are you enjoying Earth, Lady Tatsora?” Bulma asked, her voice sweet and dripping with fake warmth.

Tatsora looked at her, raised a brow, and looked back out the window, not answering her question. Why was she here if she didn’t want to speak?

Bulma felt her fingernails dig into her palms. She’d dealt with worse people before. She could handle this. She would handle this. But dammit, Tatsora was already testing her patience. And the tournament had barely begun.

Bulma was pretty sure a vein was about to pop out of her head.

Finally, Tatsora spoke, her voice quiet, meant only for Bulma. “Do you know how annoying it was to be jealous of an Earth woman?” she asked Bulma. “The prince just couldn’t stop bitching about you in all our correspondences. It was beyond obnoxious.”

If Bulma had been expecting Tatsora to say anything, it wasn’t that. She blinked, surprised.

Tatsora laughed, a light, airy sound that somehow carried an edge sharp enough to cut. “My father broke the engagement with Prince Vegeta thinking Kakarot, of all people, would be my match, once word got out that he had ascended while the crowned prince had not.”

Tatsora turned her head, her sharp gaze landing on Kakarot as if she were staring at a particularly distasteful insect. “Even the title of Empress couldn’t tempt me to marry that buffoon.”

Bulma felt protectiveness rise hot and fast in her chest. Who did this woman think she was, talking about Kakarot like that? Sure, Kakarot could be dense as a brick wall sometimes, but he was also kind, loyal, and unshakably good. Tatsora had no right to belittle him.

But then Tatsora laughed again, as if the insult had been nothing more than a throwaway joke. “Of course, my father didn’t care that I didn’t want Kakarot. He offered me anyway. But did you know…” She leaned slightly closer to Bulma, lowering her voice just enough to give the impression she was letting her in on a secret. “Kakarot turned him down.”

Bulma blinked, for once in her life uncertain of what to say. She already knew all of this. But why was Tatsora talking about it?

Tatsora smirked, clearly enjoying the moment. “Kakarot said he was, and I quote, ‘in love with the most beautiful woman in the entire galaxy.’” Her gaze flicked to Chi-Chi, who was still standing near the monitors, animatedly yelling at the screen.

“Come on, Krillin!” Chi-Chi shouted, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “Stop standing around and do something! Get closer! Sweep his legs! Are you trying to hand this to Yamcha?” Her frustration practically radiated off her in waves, and she stomped her foot for good measure, muttering something about men being impossible to teach.

Tatsora tilted her head, watching Chi-Chi with a bemused expression. “Is that her?” she asked, turning back to Bulma.

“Yes,” Bulma said darkly, fighting the urge to yell at the Saiyan woman, daring her to say something else rude.

Tatsora studied Chi-Chi for another moment, her piercing eyes narrowing slightly as if assessing her. Finally, she gave a small, approving nod. “I like her,” she said at last, her tone almost amused.

Bulma had no idea what to make of Tatsora, but everything about her set her on edge. And then Tatsora turned to her fully, finally seeming to notice the way Bulma’s jaw had tightened and her eyes narrowed in irritation. Tatsora wrinkled her nose, waving a sharp, manicured hand in the air as if shooing away Bulma’s emotions.

“Oh, do calm down, Ms. Briefs,” Tatsora said, exasperation bleeding into her otherwise sweet tone. “I’m not jealous anymore. I am happily mated now.”

Bulma froze, her irritation replaced by pure shock. That floored her entirely. Mated? Her brain scrambled for context. Tatsora… married? How had that not been in her file? Bulma prided herself on keeping tabs on every Saiyan elite.

“You are?” Bulma asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. “To who?”

Her mind raced through every eligible Saiyan she could think of, but none of them fit. Too old, too weak, too insignificant for someone like Tatsora. House Choy—the second most powerful family on Vegetasei, rivaled only by House Vegeta itself. None of them seemed worthy of her sharpness or ambition.

Tatsora grinned like a cat who got the canary, then tilted her head toward the back of the room, where Nappa and Raditz stood beside the human soldier.

Bulma’s brow furrowed. She knew it wasn’t Raditz—and she had to bite her cheek to stop herself from laughing at the absurd idea of it being Nappa—but she also couldn’t imagine Tatsora being married to a human.

“Are you serious?” Bulma asked, incredulity clear in her voice.

Tatsora shrugged, her grin widening. “Let’s just say, I get the appeal now,” she said, her sharp eyes flicking to Bulma in a way that felt a little too knowing. “A little human… sensibility will do my people some good, don’t you think?”

Bulma stared at her, caught between surprise and… something like reluctant admiration. Maybe Tatsora wasn’t so bad after all.

“Well,” Bulma said carefully, glancing back at the man Tatsora had gestured toward. “Would he like to join us?” She hesitated. “Your husband, I mean. Or mate? I’m not sure what to call him.”

Tatsora shook her head, her wild hair swishing over her shoulders. “He’s working right now. But—”

A piercing noise, sharp and deafening like a fighter jet tearing through the air, cut through the room. Bulma winced, her hands flying to cover her ears as she turned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, the platform in the center of the arena had been claimed by five Saiyan warriors, their figures imposing even from this distance.

Bulma glanced at one of the monitors in the box to get a better look at them. The cameras zoomed in, revealing the intruders in clearer detail. Two were women, three men. They stood like predators surveying their territory.

Tatsora clicked her tongue, her disapproval immediate. “I had wondered when House Terup would finally show themselves,” she muttered sourly.

The tallest Saiyan among them—a hulking male with short, spiky hair and a jagged scar running across his crooked nose—stepped into the middle of the platform. His presence was commanding, his movements deliberate. Without hesitation, two of his allies turned on the fighters already on the platform—Yamcha and Krillin.

Bulma’s breath caught as she watched on the monitors. With two swift, brutal kicks, the Saiyans sent both men flying off the platform like rag dolls. Their bodies flew through the air, slammed into the stadium’s outer walls before crumpling into the crowd. Neither moved.

“Yamcha!” Bulma gasped, leaping to her feet, her pulse hammering.

The four Saiyans formed a semi-circle around the tall man.

“I bring grave news for the prince,” the hulking Saiyan boomed. His voice carried an edge of mock solemnity. “The Emperor has fallen—an end befitting a weak ruler. And now, Vegetasei cries out for stronger leadership. Wouldn’t you agree, Prince Vegeta? ” He smirked as his sharp gaze swept the platform, daring anyone to challenge him.

A hush rippled through the crowd. 

Bulma’s stomach churned. Something about the way he delivered the news felt wrong—too rehearsed, too calculated. Her instincts screamed that this was far from a somber announcement.

“Dacron,” Tatsora hissed, her voice dripping with venom.

Bulma turned to her, startled. Dacron was a captain in House Terup’s guard. Bulma didn’t know anything about him outside of that, though. 

Tatsora’s elegant features were twisted into a scowl, her composure cracking. “He calls it a tragedy, but I’ve never seen anyone so pleased to deliver bad news,” the Saiyan elite spat. “The cowards can not even declare Macht'captio Bellum, they stoop to assassination like the weaklings they are. How utterly shameless.”

Kakarot took Chi-Chi’s hand, his usually carefree expression dark with tension, and led her back toward Bulma. His voice was low and urgent. “We’ve got to leave,” he said.

“I’m not leaving Vegeta,” Bulma snapped, squaring her shoulders. Her pulse was already racing, and she refused to entertain the idea of abandoning him. Not now. Not ever.

Before Kakarot could reply, a deafening boom reverberated through the air. The floor-to-ceiling glass window behind them shattered in an instant, sending shards exploding inward like deadly confetti. Bulma’s stomach plummeted as she stumbled back. The force of the blast nearly knocked her off her feet, and a gaping hole now yawned where the window had been. Air rushed into the private box, whipping her hair around her face.

Her eyes darted to the destruction, heart pounding in disbelief. That shouldn’t have been possible. The IESG shield should have neutralized any energy-based attacks, let alone something powerful enough to breach reinforced glass. Her mind raced. What had gone wrong? Was it a faulty booster? Had a part been damaged during setup? Or—her breath hitched—had someone known they would use the IESG and sabotaged it?

The others were already reacting. Chi-Chi clung to Kakarot’s arm, her face pale. Tatsora remained seated, unnervingly calm as her sharp eyes flickered between the shattered window and the chaos below. 

Bulma’s head snapped around. Nappa’s massive arm was still raised, his palm outstretched and glowing faintly, the telltale remnants of an energy blast radiating from his fingertips.

“What are you doing?” Kakarot demanded, his voice rising in disbelief.

“Don’t just stand there like a fool,” Nappa bellowed, his deep voice cutting through the howling wind and panic. “Get her to safety. Now. ” He jerked his chin toward Bulma.

Kakarot hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded grimly. He moved toward Bulma, reaching out to grab her arm. But Bulma stepped back sharply, her hands shooting up between them, palms out like a barrier.

“No way,” she said firmly, her voice shaking only slightly. “I said I’m not leaving Vegeta!”

Her defiance was met with silence for the briefest moment. And then, without warning, someone fast and strong seized her from behind. She barely had time to gasp before her feet left the ground, her body lifted and carried through the shattered window into the open air. The sudden rush of wind ripped the scream from her throat, but it was cut short as a rough hand clamped over her mouth.

She writhed instinctively, her heart slamming against her ribs as she realized how high up they were. Her mind screamed fight, but the iron grip holding her didn’t budge.

“Be quiet, or I’ll drop you right here,” a familiar voice growled into her ear.

“Raditz?” she tried to yell, but it was muffled against his hand.

“Keep struggling, and I swear —” Raditz hissed. His tone wasn’t angry. It was cold, calculated. His grip tightened as if to emphasize his point, and she froze, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Her wide eyes flicked downward, locked on the platform just as a brilliant golden light burst forth. Dacron stood at the center of the stage, his body trembling with energy. It radiated off him in sharp, jagged waves, crackling in the air like a storm barely contained. His hair, once black, now shimmered a radiant gold. The air around him distorted, heatwaves shimmering like a mirage, his aura a violent mix of golden light and flickering sparks.

The crowd gasped, some crying out in awe or fear as the energy rippled outward. Dust and debris whipped into a frenzy around him, swirling chaotically. His transformation was as unsettling as it was mesmerizing. This wasn’t just power—it was raw, overwhelming, and merciless.

Bulma’s stomach twisted as the realization hit her like a blow. Dacron had Ascended.

Chapter Text

Raditz stopped mid-flight and turned slightly, barked a command behind him. “Nappa, Kakarot—go help the Emperor!” 

Bulma twisted and writhed against his hold, her heart pounding in her chest. Below her, chaos erupted. From this height, the figures on the ground were little more than blurs, but for the brief moment they had paused, she could see enough—fighters clashed, energy blasts shook the earth, more Saiyans joined the fray by the second. Bulma tried to keep track of Vegeta, but they were too far away, too high up, and there were too many bodies, too much movement. She had lost sight of him. Her pulse spiked in panic.

Raditz didn’t wait to see if the others obeyed before shooting off into the sky with Bulma locked tightly in his grasp.

“Take me back!” she yelled under his hand, her voice raw with anger and fear. She thrashed against Raditz’s grip, her nails digging into his forearm. “Take me back to Vegeta! Now!”

Raditz finally removed his hand from her mouth. But his arms wrapped around her waist like iron. “Stop struggling, woman. You’re embarrassing yourself,” he sneered. But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

She could no longer see the arena, wasn't sure how far away Raditz had taken her. For a moment, the sound of a roar—deep, primal, and chilling—reached her ears, so loud and unnatural it sent a shiver down her spine. Was that Vegeta? Or someone else? She couldn’t tell.

“What's happening?!” she shouted. 

Raditz laughed. Bulma's blood ran cold. The Saiyan leaned his head down, his voice close to her ear, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. “You know, you really should’ve listened to Nappa when he told you to leave the prince alone. Maybe then you wouldn’t have gotten caught up in all of this.” His tone turned dark. Amused. “It’s a pity, though. Such a waste. You’re quite sexy, you know.”

Bulma’s stomach turned. Her body went rigid as his nose brushing against the side of her neck. She felt him sniff her, his breath hot against her skin. She tried to recoil as her gut twisted with revulsion.

“Get off me!” she spat, thrashing harder against him once more. 

Raditz ignored her. "We really could’ve used your scientific mind," he drawled, his tone almost conversational now. "Especially since I had to get rid of Zoya... and a fair number of Red Ribbon scientists." He shrugged. "Unfortunately, they knew too much.” He paused. "I've gotta say, I didn't expect you to kill her, but it sure helped me out."

Bulma froze. Tried to swallow but couldn't. "What... What are you saying?"

Raditz chuckled again, the sound low and cruel. “You’re a smart girl, Bulma," he said, mocking her. "You can’t figure it out?”

Her fists clenched, her fear boiling into fury. “Either kill me or explain!”

He hummed, as though considering her words. “Patience. I can’t kill you just yet. Not until Dacron gets here.”

Dacron... The Captain from House Terup. The one who had somehow ascended...

It didn’t make sense. Ascension was supposed to practically be a myth, a rarity among Saiyans—so rare that only a handful in all of Saiyan history had ever achieved it. 

“Tell me what’s going on!” she demanded, trying and failing to keep her voice from shaking.

“You really can’t you figure it out?” She could almost hear him smiling. “Remember the night the prince was drugged?” he asked. “That serum Zoya gave him? That was the day I knew for sure that the Prince- the Emperor would ascend soon.”

Bulma wanted to ask him how the hell he knew about that, but it was pretty obvious at this point. Raditz had been the traitor all along. 

“It's meant to cause an artificial ascention, but didn’t work on him," he said. "But it didn't kill him, either. Zoya knew she was giving him an unstable version. And I'll let you in on a little secret...What House Terup doesn’t know is that Zoya's scientists never were able to stabilize it. There's about a dozen others from House Terup fighting the Emperor right now. They all took the serum.” He scoffed. “They’re ticking time bombs. The serum gives them the power of ascension for about an hour. Two at most. But... their bodies just can’t handle it.”

Bulma’s heart raced, her chest tightening. “Why are you doing this?"

Raditz laughed, the sound harsh and cruel. “The men who killed the Emperor took the serum as well. They are long dead by now,” he said, shaking his head. “But the prince? He survived when we gave it to him. He's strong. That near-death experience gave him the push he needed. He’s so close now… He just needs one more little push.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Maybe if she kept him talking someone would notice them in time.

Raditz’s grip tightened slightly, and his voice turned almost gleeful. “Kakarot ascended when our entire clan was destroyed. It was loss that drove him. Pain. I imagine Emperor Vegeta will feel the same way when he sees you free falling and realizes he’s too late to save you. No one will get to you in time.” He makes a false sound of sympathy. "How very tragic."

Bulma’s stomach twisted. “That’s a stupid plan,” she snapped. “Vegeta will know you killed me.”

Raditz smirked. “No, no,” he said smoothly. “The Emperor will see Dacron and I fight. Then others will join—more of House Terup’s 'ascended' warriors. I’ll fight so valiantly to save you, but alas…” He shrugged. “It won’t be enough. You’ll fall to your death. And then, finally, he will Ascend.” Bulma's blood ran cold. Raditz was evil. He was insane.

Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. “Why are you doing this?” she demanded. “You betrayed Vegeta, you betrayed your own brother! Why!?” Her voice broke with rage and desperation. “For what, Raditz?!”

“I betrayed no one!” Raditz snarled, his voice venomous. “My brother betrayed our house when he refused to challenge the prince! And the prince betrayed us all by remaining weak! Everything I’ve done will allow Emperor Vegeta to finally Ascend! And then, finally, I will truly belong to the Greatest House!”

Before she could respond, a Saiyan flew toward them with incredible speed. His golden aura marked him as one of the 'Ascended'. It was Dacron. He smiled wickedly at Bulma. 

Raditz shoved Bulma roughly to the side, holding her with one arm as Dacron lunged at him. Raditz snarled as he made a good show of fending off the attacker. His hold on Bulma faltered slightly. She tried not to scream. Tried not to think about what was about to happen to her.

Then, more Saiyans joined the fray, surrounding Raditz. He pretended to struggle, his grip on Bulma slipping further with each clash. She screamed as his arm gave way, and suddenly, she was falling.

The wind tore at her, her screams swallowed by the rush of air. Panic like she'd never known before seized her as she plummeted toward the ground. She tried to calculate in her head but her mind was too frantic to focus. She knew one thing: she wouldn’t survive the impact.

Tears stung her eyes as she squeezed them shut. I’m going to die.

But then she heard it—a scream so raw, so guttural, it sounded almost inhuman. Her eyes snapped open just in time to see Vegeta erupt in golden light as he flew toward her. His energy exploded outward, blasting back every fighter around him. The force of it shook the earth, the sky itself seeming to quake beneath his power. But it was just as Raditz said. He was too far away to get to her in time.

She almost smiled. If she was going to die, at least she got to see him Ascend.

But she never hit the ground. A pair of arms caught her mid-fall, the impact jarring enough to knock the wind out of her. Pain shot through her ribs, and she gasped, certain something was broken.

She looked up, her vision swimming. She didn't think it wasn’t Kakarot. And she knew it couldn't be Vegeta. But Bulma couldn’t make out who it was. The pain was too great to bear, and darkness closed in.

She lost consciousness.

Bulma woke to the hazy glow of hospital lights and the soft murmur of voices nearby. Her head felt heavy, her limbs like lead, and for a moment she wasn’t sure if she was dreaming or awake. Blinking slowly, she turned her head, her vision blurry but just clear enough to make out her parents standing next to her. Her mother’s worried face softened as she saw Bulma stir. Her father leaned down, squeezing her hand gently before smiling at her.

“She’s awake,” her mother whispered, her voice choking as she held back a sob.

Bulma tried to speak, but her throat felt raw. She managed a faint, “Hi,” her voice scratchy and slurred from the painkillers pumping through her system.

Paunchy leaned over her, peppered her face with kisses before resting her cheek against her daughter's for a moment as she cried softly. "Oh, my darling, I'm so glad you're safe." Bulma felt tears well up in her eyes. She wanted to hug her mom, but it hurt to move.

A moment later her father cleared his throat. “We’ll give you two a moment,” he said. Bulma’s foggy mind didn’t register what he meant until she noticed the figure seated on the other side of her bed.

Vegeta.

He sat rigidly, his hands resting on his knees, his dark eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her heart flutter despite the dull ache radiating through her body. He didn’t say anything at first, but his presence alone made her feel warm. Safe.

Despite everything—the pain, the drugs, the fact that she was lying in a hospital bed—she couldn’t help the dreamy smile that spread across her lips. “Vegeta…” she murmured. “You did it.”

His lips twitched, the faintest trace of a smirk appearing. “I did, didn't I?” he said, his voice low, rough.

She nodded, her eyes half-lidded as the memory floated to the surface. “I knew you could,” she said, her tone soft, reverent.

Vegeta’s smirk vanished and to her surprise, he reached for her hands, his warm, calloused fingers curling gently around hers. The simple gesture made her chest tighten, and she stared at their joined hands, her foggy mind struggling to process the moment.

And then, because she was loopy from the drugs, she blurted out, “Are you trying to fuck me in the hospital?” She tried to waggle her brows at him but she couldn't quite get them to obey her.

Vegeta froze, his expression flickering between stunned and something dangerously close to amusement.

“I mean,” she continued, completely oblivious to his reaction, “because let me tell you… I so would.” She paused, narrowing her eyes as her body registered a deep, throbbing ache. “Except I don't think I can move right now. So, yeah, never mind.”

“Woman,” Vegeta said, his voice a mix of exasperation and amusement, “you broke more than a few bones when you fell.”

The memory of what had happened slammed into her like a freight train, and her breath caught. “Raditz,” she gasped, her eyes widening as panic surged through her.

Vegeta’s expression darkened immediately, the amusement vanishing from his face. His grip on her hands tightened, grounding her. “Raditz is dead,” he said, his voice low and final.

Bulma stared at him, her heart hammering. She swallowed hard. “Who… Who caught me?”

“Nappa,” Vegeta replied simply.

“Nappa!?” she repeated, incredulous. “But… but he hates me.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted. “But he is loyal to House Vegeta.”

“Huh.” She blinked, processing that. “And House Terup?” she asked hesitantly, afraid of the answer.

Vegeta’s expression twisted into one of disgust. “While we were fighting... they began to…”

“Explode?” she guessed, wincing at the memory of Raditz’s earlier confession.

“Yes,” Vegeta confirmed, his tone clipped.

Bulma scrunched her nose. “Gross.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence stretched between them, and Bulma found herself staring into Vegeta’s eyes. There was something there—something raw, unguarded, and achingly sad. Her chest tightened.

She blinked, took a deep breath, trying to focus. Even in her haze, she had a feeling she knew what was happening. “You... have to go, don’t you?” she asked softly.

Vegeta nodded, his hands tightening around hers. “I must secure my position,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “I must stabilize my planet. Stamp out the insurrection.”

Bulma swallowed the lump in her throat. She wanted to argue, to beg him to stay, but she knew she couldn’t. She forced a weak smile. “I want to come with you,” she said.

Vegeta’s brow furrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Woman, you nearly broke your spine,” he said, his tone stern. “You must rest.”

“I-I want to come with you,” she repeated stubbornly, her voice trembling with emotion.

“It’s not safe,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “My planet is most likely in the middle of a civil war.”

She sighed, her shoulders sagging. “Fine,” she muttered. “But take Kakarot with you,” she added, her tone insistent.

Vegeta scoffed but didn’t refuse.

The pain was getting to be too much and Bulma pushed the button for more relief.

“And leave... leave Ta'sora,” she slurred as the drugs began to take effect. “Gotta… gotta see if there’s anything in my closet she wants.”

Vegeta raised a brow, clearly confused. “What are you talking about?”

“I wan'er Birkin,” Bulma muttered.

“What the hell is a Birkin?” Vegeta asked, his brow furrowing.

“A purse,” Bulma explained, her voice dreamy. “A gorgeous handbag.”

Vegeta stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “You want me to leave one of my most powerful allies behind… so she’ll give you her purse.”

Bulma tried to wave a dismissive hand, but her arm didn’t move. “Di'you know she’s married?” she asked instead.

Vegeta nodded.

"That's nice," she sighed and closed her eyes.

“I thought I had lost you,” Vegeta said quietly, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I…” He cleared his throat. “I can’t…” His voice trailed off again. “Bulma…”

Bulma was trying—and failing—to remain awake. 

“Would you wait for me?” she thought he asked quietly, though it could have just been wishful thinking and the haze of medication.

"O'course," she muttered anyway.

She thought— hoped—she heard something else, too. Something about being his empress one day. But maybe she was dreaming. Maybe the drugs were making her imagine things.

Her eyelids felt too heavy to open, and the last thing she noticed was the warmth of his hands around hers.