The sweet breeze of spring rolled in low over the grounds of Capsule Corporation. For the first time in months, the windows were thrown in to invite the soft scent of evening time. The table was set and ready for dinner as a family. Bunny Briefs bustled about, humming along with the radio as she prepared a spread for no reason in particular. Bulma had stepped out over an hour when she received a phone call. She could only guess who was on the other line. It was all too often that Bulma would receive a phone call from the ex and would be downtrodden for the rest of the day. The two had insisted on remaining friends, stating that their separation was amicable, but the matriarch was inclined to suspect that it was amicable in one direction only.
Dr. Briefs stepped into the kitchen, a towel draped over his shoulders. After a day in the engine shop craned over various machinery, a quiet evening with his wife and youngest daughter was in order. The three of them had set aside dinner time as family time as per Bulma's request. The divorce had been somewhat hard on her, especially since the relationship had been everything she had known for the better part of a decade. To a young heart, seven years was an eternity. She had been a bride for just over a year when the two had gone their separate ways. Being back at home with Mom and Dad was a small comfort, though the two noted the defeat in her eyes. She had lost more than Yamcha in the divorce.
Bulma came in through the back door, her phone still in one hand as she wiped at her eyes with the other. Stifling a sniffle, she plastered on a weak smile and commented on the smell of dinner. Bunny and Dr. Briefs gave each other a knowing glance before putting the matter behind them. Bulma would talk if she needed to talk and there was no way to coax her if she didn't want to comment.
"How did the last of that diagnostic come up, Dad?" Bulma asked as she took her usual place at the table. She kept her smile in place, though it didn't reach the mascara smears around her eyes.
"The results are looking up, B," the doctor stated. He ladled a hefty portion of potatoes onto his plate. "I think the core is still good. There is some real potential in your designs. We need to run some more calculations to see if running it in flight would be viable. I see no reason why it shouldn't work."
"That is good news," she said, some of the happiness returning to her smile. "I have some ideas for a new ship that I want to get on paper before bed. I want to redo last year's Ranger model. I think we can make it faster without compromising power."
Dr. Briefs chuckled, "That's my baby girl! You sure got your father's brain!"
"And her mother's looks," Bunny chimed in, just now taking her seat with the family. "Both of our daughters were so fortunate."
Dinner was a welcomed distraction for Bulma nowadays. True, she had her work, but the absence of love in her life was heavy and cold in her heart. It had been six months since her and Yamcha had come to the conclusion that they were going different ways in life. They had met as teenagers with stars in their eyes and the world before them. Bulma brought solidity into Yamcha's life and Yamcha gave her a sense of adrenaline. It was Yamcha who inspired Bulma to actually return to college after finishing schooling so young, hence the title of Dr. that was attached to her name (though she refused to go by Dr. Briefs; that was her father's title, after all). Bulma had inspired Yamcha to risk it all and try out for the major leagues, turning his lifelong hobby of baseball into an actual career. They had pushed each other into betterment, however larger issues loomed.
Once the prolonged honeymoon period ended and the glass was broken, the two were left with very little in common other than a shared history. The arguments intensified and distrust set in. Through the counsel of friends and family, they were advised that this was common in couples that had been together for over five years. The dust eventually settled and things mellowed.
Yamcha proposed to her over dinner one night. It was planned down to the flowers on the restaurant table, the music the band was playing, and the dessert they shared. Beneath a shroud of whipped cream and strawberries was a chocolate box with a ring that looked good enough to eat. In pre-proposal discussion, Dr. Briefs had insisted that Yamcha take some extra cash to get Bulma something extra special to wear for better or for worse. The moment was immortalized by the best photographer in all of West City, yet another gift from Mama and Papa Briefs. At once, wedding preparations began and the gild of joy was swept over the young couple once again. The media was in a frenzy over the "wedding of the year"; Capsule Corporation's multibillion dollar baby and the sweetheart of the major leagues were to be married.
Once the cake was gone and the thank you notes had been sent, the buzz of the wedding died down and the marriage began. Bulma and Yamcha had decided to own their own house rather than living on the Capsule grounds with her parents. They had a smaller, yet still gargantuan, house on the outskirts of town. Bulma had drawn up design plans for the décor with one of the top interior decorators in the entire metropolitan area; the house looked like it was out of a magazine. Still, with everything a woman could ask for, something was missing.
She had taken the test on a Sunday morning. Hands trembling as she waited for the results, she took a deep breath and let her mind calm. She opened her eyes to see two lines staring back at her. She was going to be a mother. With all of the happiness in the world, she wept, holding onto the porcelain of the sink for support. She ran out of the bathroom and into the arms of her husband. He spun her around, laughing and chanting and crying. They would have one more to help fill their home. Secretly, each of them hoped that a child was what they needed to reignite what was missing from their hearts.
Nearly immediately, Bulma fell ill. Though she was able to keep with her duties as entrepreneur and inventor, her mood was sour and her emotions were raw. The arguing was brutal and personal. Though her and her husband wanted so badly to push forward, the waters were rough. At wits end, they had resolved to see a counselor to work everything out with an impartial third party. Bulma wrote the number for a renowned marital therapist on a sticky note and affixed it to their bathroom mirror. First thing in the morning she would call and make them appointment.
The morning didn't come as planned, however. Midway through dreaming she awoke, dizzy with pain. Every synapse cried out, knowing something was terribly wrong. She managed to wake Yamcha. His expression remained etched in her mind—panic, knowing, and sadness all combined as he jumped from the bed to call for help. For several painful moments she lay in the near silence with the sound of her husband's panicked voice resonating from down the hallway as he plead with emergency response for some help.
She had asked her nurse to pull the blackout curtains closed, darkening the hospital room and protecting her from the world outside. Everyone outside her little world continued on as if their lives hadn't ended as hers had. She had refused all of the flowers and cards that had been sent to her from distant friends and relatives, keeping only the bouquet of yellow roses that her mother had brought from her garden. She reached out and touched the stem of one rose, running her finger down the length, its thorns scratching just short of puncturing the flesh.
"Why did this happen?" she asked her doctor after being admitted. Tears were hot as they streamed down her reddened face. Though he had explained earlier that miscarriage didn't always have a definite cause, he knew the meaning of her outcry at present. His grip slackening slightly on his clipboard, he bowed his head and shook it slowly. Nothing he could have said would have taken any of the pain away. She didn't even hear his words of apology over her own grief.
Once she returned home, she and Yamcha walked through life through a haze for a few days. Through a mess of tears and hushed voices, they took off their wedding bands on a Sunday morning. Rather than fight on as lovers they would part ways as friends. Grasping at straws wasn't benefitting anyone and they admitted it together. Once in their respective homes again, their married home went on the market and they filed their divorce papers. As if a weight had lifted, Yamcha rebounded back to the jovial young man he had been in their earlier days. Bulma's heart was still heavy, but she kept their friendship as planned.
A crash of ceramic brought Bulma back to the present as her father's cat knocked a full gravy boat from the table and onto the floor. She shook her head, clearing her down thoughts. Her mother and father were chortling, playfully scolding the cat for making a mess of things. At once, one of the Capsule Corp. cleaning bots whirred into the room and cleaned the broken boat and its contents from the tiles. By this point, her parents were done eating and were getting up from their chairs. Her mother noticed that her plate was still mostly full.
"Bulma-chan, you've hardly touched your plate," Mrs. Briefs said in a sweet, concerned voice. "Is everything alright?"
"Things are fine, Mom," she reassured, though not convinced herself. "I had a big lunch. I will reheat my meal later."
Bunny took the plate from her daughter's hand, insisting, "let me take care of that for you. I will plate it and put it in the fridge. You go relax."
Bulma gave her mother a sincere smile and ducked out the back door to the balcony. The air was cooling rapidly and she pulled on her sweater sleeves in response. She leaned against the railing of the porch, looking up at the crescent moon and blanket of stars above. Instinctively, she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket. As she lit up, she thought she saw something strange above, almost like the waves that radiate from hot sand. Squinting and straining, she saw nothing of any real note. Returning back to her vice, she examined the warning label on her pack. As the most brilliant young mind on the planet, she knew the risk associated with smoking. For the umpteenth time, she resolved that this was the last pack. Truly, she would quit once life stopped being so damn stressful.
She paced around the deck as she smoked the cigarette down to the filter. With a sigh she tossed the butt into the garden planter at the end of the porch. For a split second she could have sworn she saw a bright glimpse of green in the bushes. Now suspicious, she turned to go back into the house. She would need to get a hold of security about the strange feeling she was getting. If there was one thing Bulma prided herself on (besides her intelligence and good looks) it was her intuition. Before she had the time to make it to the door, something tackled her and swept her off her feet. A strong hand clamped over her mouth and prohibited her from calling out. A low, gruff male voice said something in a language she couldn't understand. She looked up as well as she could with her limited movement and caught sight of the green she had seen. This man was wearing some strange green eyepiece with flashing lights emanating across the tinted glass. The man was fairly large and built like a tank with spiky red hair that jutted out almost perpendicular to his forehead. His coal eyes looked down at her, peering into her soul. She tried her best to memorize what she could see of his features in case she needed to identify him once she was free of his grasp but she was cut short as she felt a quick stab into her arm. Everything faded to darkness.