Yes, I'm still working on Those Whom The Gods Desire. That thing is my albatross. I know where I want it to go, I know how it ends, but I just can't seem to do it.

So, hopefully there's some people out there who like to eat their VeggieBuls because I don't know where the fuck this came from. It's a three year gap story because everyone needs a three year gap story because why the fuck not. It's also 20 chapters, finished, and edited carefully, but no doubt I will accidentally a word somewhere. Don't ride my ass on spellings - I'm Canadian and use Canadian English - before you submit a spelling error, put it into the Google and make sure you're not just American. I've used the English Anime spellings for the names (Please note, online sources present the correct spelling of Dr. Briefs as 'Dr. Brief', but it seems convention accepts Briefs. I prefer Briefs, so I've changed it). I read the manga and the only anime I watch is the abridged parody, so it's not true to anime canon. All the same, I've tried to keep this as plausible as I can.

The usual warnings apply - there is foul language and very explicit material in this story. Not a whole lot of violence for once, maybe I'm losing my edge in my old age.

Enjoy, bitches. I'll keep it to once a week.

In the wake of Frieza's aborted effort to destroy Earth, the would-be defenders of Earth scattered to their respective training grounds for three years of intensive training.

Three years. The strange boy had told them they had three years before yet another world destroying event struck – these androids who had already killed him in one potential future. Three years, which must all be put into preparation, and training. Three years, in which he had to achieve something that a Saiyan achieved perhaps once in every thousand. Something which had already been achieved in his generation. By Kakarot, that third-rate failure of a Saiyan. Not by him.

But it would be. He would achieve it. He had already made that decision, and nothing would sway him from that path. He would meet those androids, and he would kill them, in his Super Saiyan form. And then, he would kill Kakarot, and all that Kakarot loved, and lay waste to this idiot-riddled rock, and go forth into the galaxy once more as Vegeta, Prince of All Saiyans. And the galaxy would tremble.

Until that time… he would continue to train, to get stronger. That woman had not withdrawn her offer for safe harbour when they had returned to the compound with her weakling boyfriend. She might be just a weak human with a lewd mouth, but she was a very capable engineer and inventor, as was her father. They could create the best training facilities this pitiful, ignorant planet could offer. It was time to get to work.

Three years. Three years before the end of their world, and the members of the Z-team were focused entirely on training. Tien and Chaiotzu were off blowing up some mountains together, Krillin was at Kame House, and Goku, Gohan and Piccolo had vanished entirely. Even Yamcha was focusing on training. Vegeta left the gravity room for two reasons – sleep and food, and despite her automatic flirtations and her invitation for him to stay, Vegeta was no closer to being a friend than when he was killing her other friends. She was starting to feel left out. Sure, she sometimes watched Yamcha when he trained, but there wasn't much she could do to help him. He never asked for her help. So, she patched him up when he hurt himself, and focused on her work.

Avoiding Vegeta wasn't difficult – she did have a lot of work – but sometimes her dad would consult her on some theory or another, or she'd have to talk to the employees who handled grocery deliveries about bringing even more food, and she'd have to think about the Saiyan. Occasionally he'd hurt himself and she'd sublimate her nervousness into concern and patch him up with the same skill and reflexive sass that she delivered to any of the other stubborn men in her life whenever they managed to bleed. He always glowered at her whenever she fussed over his injuries, but she paid it no more mind than she paid any of the others. Yamcha always thanked her after and gave her a kiss on the forehead (though he always looked a little uncomfortable whenever she tended to others). Vegeta gave her a dirty glare and stalked off in silence. But she'd spent half her life mending the wounds of insanely powerful warriors and wasn't about to stop anytime soon. Besides, he was going to fight the androids, and that made him… ok, for now. For now. Plus it didn't hurt that he was hot.

Days crawled into weeks, and weeks crawled into months. Yamcha trained. Vegeta trained. Bulma worked on inventions, ensured that provisioning could keep up with the appetites of two training martial artists, and occasionally applied bandages when the guys sprang a leak. As time went on, the Saiyan continued to improve, cranking past first 10g, then 20g, 30g… on and on. It wasn't Goku's six days to 100g, but it was regular improvement.

Yamcha, on the other hand, seemed to have hit his peak. He had already been near the pinnacle of human physical potential, and because of that, there wasn't much further he could grow. Bulma didn't care, she loved her boyfriend. She'd loved him through the last 14 years, through thick and thin, through triumphs and pitfalls and his occasional indiscretions with other women. He usually came through in the end and tried as hard as he could in whatever he did. Even if he didn't end up being the one to save the world, she knew he would do his best or die trying. He had once already. Although, she would really prefer if he didn't die at all, the first time was bad enough.

Nevertheless, as Vegeta's training curve kept a steady incline and Yamcha's flatlined, something inside the human martial artist seemed to wither. He would glance at the gravity rating on the capsule where Vegeta trained every day on his way to the yard Bulma had arranged for him, and every day on his way back, and every time, his head would dip and his shoulders slump. Bulma had noticed this, but never commented, because while training, Yamcha appeared to forget all about it and focus only on his own progress. But the spark had gone out of him.

"I just don't know, B," he'd said, one night while they were cuddled on the couch in her family's home theatre, watching a stupid action movie.

"About what?" she replied. He shifted next to her, and she felt a stab of loneliness – since he had come back to life he hadn't once made love to her, and had rebuffed her efforts at initiating, claiming he wasn't feeling up to it. He claimed he still wanted her, but…

"About all of this. The androids. That boy from the future. Prince Asshole. The others…" he trailed off, but Bulma still heard the silent '…us…' hanging in the air between them.

"We just have to get stronger than the androids, that's all," Bulma said, after an uncomfortable silence.

"That's all…" Yamcha sighed, caressing her softly as she curled next to him. "That's all, she says. Get stronger. Yeah, B. I've been trying, but in case you haven't noticed, it just ain't happening."

Her heart dipped. Yamcha sounded so empty. "But Yamcha," she protested, softly, "You're already one of the strongest men on the planet."

"It's not enough, B," he murmured. "Besides, Goku is way stronger than me. His kid is way stronger than me, and Gohan is just a kid. Vegeta is stronger than I'll ever be. If these guys aren't strong enough to defeat the androids, then how the hell am I supposed to do it? They're stronger than God."

She snorted. "Don't be silly, Yamcha. We will be enough, somehow. I'm sure of it. That boy already changed the future just by coming here. We'll be enough. You'll be enough. I'll be enough," she insisted.

"I don't know, Bulma," he said, quietly. She flinched at hearing her name. Yamcha called her B, Blue, Babe, Beautiful, (and occasionally Bitch when they were fighting), but rarely by her actual name. She reached out and found his hand, giving it a squeeze. He gave her a half-hearted squeeze back, and she let the matter drop.

One week after, Yamcha told her he was going to quit training because he'd joined a baseball team.

Vegeta went on training, oblivious to everything but the steady rise of the gravity rating of his training room.

One week after that, they broke it off by mutual consent, though Yamcha still came by several times to eat Panchy's cooking and watch movies with Bulma, with each of them in the theatre chairs, instead of together on the couch. Neither of them had the heart for a romance, but they weren't quite ready to give up a friendship.

Vegeta kept training.

One week later, the gravity room blew up while Vegeta was training. Bulma rushed to help Vegeta from the rubble, while Yamcha looked on in horror. Whether his horror was because of the accident or because Bulma's first instinct was to help the man who had gotten Yamcha killed, no one knew.

After that, Yamcha stopped coming entirely.

"At 300 gravities, a 60 kg man will weigh 18,000 kgs," Dr. Briefs had protested, months ago, when Vegeta demanded he construct a room capable of it. But Vegeta had insisted, and Dr. Briefs had tried. Tried. At 100g, flubbing a dodge had ended with the capsule destroying itself and Vegeta getting fussed over by that woman, and then waiting for repairs. He'd endured worse, yet she'd still insisted on cleaning his wounds and bandaging him up as if he was some kind of weakling who needed nursed back to health. She'd sat in some kind of vigil when he'd been recovering from the gravity room. She never reacted to his pointed glares, just snapped something about being more careful and taking a break before he destroyed that 'sexy body' of his.

A break. Yeah, right. A break. Kakarot had gotten to 100 gravities in six days. Vegeta had only recently hit that stage, after months. And yet, achieving Super Saiyan seemed as far away as ever. He couldn't take a break, not now. Which was why he was currently pacing outside Dr. Briefs' office. It had been a month. He was annoyed with the lack of high-powered training.

"Come on in, Vegeta. I can't think with you doing that," Dr. Briefs called out. Vegeta strode in, standing in front of the man's desk. The small, furry creature the scientist kept as a pet meowed a greeting from the man's shoulder, and Dr. Briefs idly scratched its head, before tapping ash off his cigarette. "How can I help you?"

Vegeta scowled. Dr. Briefs should already know this. Human communication was annoying with all the redundant formalities and time-wasting dance around pleasantries. "I want to know when the gravity chamber will be ready again," he stated, trying not to snap. The other man didn't generally seem to notice or care about Vegeta's general cold and superior attitude, but Vegeta recognized that he should probably not bite the hand that helped him train. Besides, he'd already learned that the man simply didn't register threats or acknowledge Vegeta's rage in any way whatsoever. There was no point yelling. The outcome wouldn't change. The man was unflappable.

"I've been working on that every spare moment I have. I wanted to update the design; the unit shouldn't have failed like that. Give me at least a few more days to work out the kinks," Dr. Briefs replied, absolutely unfazed by the glowering Saiyan.

Vegeta ground his teeth and sighed. He scratched at a scabbed-over wound idly, bits of dead skin flaking off under his nails. "What can be done to make it faster?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

Before Dr. Briefs could respond, a voice behind him interrupted. "Hey Dad, have you seen V—oh, there you are, Vegeta!" Both Dr. Briefs and Vegeta looked to see the blue-haired woman entering the office, holding a bundle of something in her arms. Vegeta had felt her coming – all the people here had incredibly weak power levels, but he still tried to make a habit of tracking every ki signature he could. He just hadn't realized she was heading for the office – he thought maybe she was going to the workshop across the hall.

"Oh, hey, Bulma, dear. You're just in time. Vegeta wants us to go faster on rebuilding the gravity chamber. I was thinking you could take a look at my designs, see where we could improve the containment efficiency, perhaps work out a safety system to deactivate it in the case of a missed shot so that we don't have to completely rebuild…" Vegeta tuned out the man's rambling, opting to stare querulously at the woman, wondering what was in her arms and why she was searching for him.

"Just a moment, Dad. Vegeta! I went by your room to give you this, but you weren't resting. You should have been resting!" She shoved the bundle at him, and he took it with a noncommittal grunt.

"What is it, woman?" he demanded.

"Why don't you open it? I swear, if the lot of you meatheads didn't all look so good shirtless, I would have found smarter company to run with years ago," she muttered, acidly. Vegeta had to suppress a facial tic. But he turned his attention to the bundle in his hands nonetheless and opened it. Inside was a new suit of armour, styled after his old armour – same look, same colours. Vegeta was silently impressed – she'd gotten a lot of the little details right.

"Well?" the woman demanded, when he didn't comment.

"It's armour," he responded, because it obviously was.

"Yes, and I made it. Go try it on, and then go destroy it, but make sure you don't destroy this part here," she pointed to an addition on the armour that hadn't been part of the original design, "because it's taking metrics so I can improve the design. Keep the bag to put the remains in, I want them back to deconstruct."

He blinked. It was quite possibly the first time someone who wasn't in Frieza's army told him to go destroy something. "Whatever, woman," he grumbled, and started heading for the exit. Go destroy it, indeed. Well, he would. He'd find some out-of-the-way forest or canyon or some shit and destroy the shit out of it.

"And try not to come back with any more punctures or lacerations!" she barked as he exited. He grimaced.

"Let Panchy know if you won't be back for dinner," Dr. Briefs cheerfully called as he left.

"I'll be back for dinner," Vegeta stated. Miss dinner?! Not a chance. Those two boffins were already talking about some immensely boring, irrelevant technical detail. He picked up that it had to do with the gravity room and was pleased. Maybe it would go faster with the woman there. He wasn't going to say it to Dr. Briefs, but he thought Bulma might actually be the smarter of the two.

She was definitely the prettier of the two, shapely and with exotic colouring. Pity she was just a shitty human with no power at all. And friends with that third-rate dipshit, Kakarot. And consorting with that weakling. Come to think of it, where was the weakling? Usually he trailed behind the woman. Oh well, it wasn't like any of them mattered. Vegeta had armour to destroy. He left.

"Take a look at this, Bulma," Dr. Briefs said, after the Saiyan had exited. She peered at his notes, eyes flickering as she rapidly scanned the lines. Scratch meowed, and hopped onto the desk for pats. Both Briefs automatically reached out to pat the kitty. One couldn't not pat the kitty. Dr. Briefs lit another cigarette.

"I see what you mean, Dad. That containment system has got to be beefed up if we want to bring it to 300 gravities like Mister Badman asked. I think we should plan for higher than that, though."

"You're right, I don't think any of your friends ever learned to stop at 'enough'. Let's see how high we can crank it before the containment fails," Dr. Briefs agreed.

"I think I can work out a safety, too, for if he goes down again. He was badly hurt last time. If he goes down, we need the system to shut off and go to Earth standard so that I can get in and pull him out for medical help. Here, let me make a copy of your notes, and I'll work on containment and safety like you asked, if you want to take on scaling the gravity field. That's the more involved task, I think."

"Sounds good to me, Bulma. Let me know when you have some progress. See you at dinner," Dr. Briefs smiled through his moustache.

"Love you, Dad," she grinned, giving her father a peck on the head before heading off to make copies.

"Love you, sweetie. Oh, by the way, you should know that operant conditioning works on your grumpy friend," he remarked.

Operant conditioning? Oh… right. She smirked. "He cut the threats?"

Her father just smiled, absently patting Scratch.