Trunks was squalling in the basinet beside her as Bulma flicked madly through each channel. There was nothing but static on almost all stations, some capturing the last flickering images of her comrades and that threatening, ungodly beast.
"Can't you … y'know, make it stop?" Oolong grumbled as he raised himself up off the floor to peer into the contents of the capsulable basinet. Bulma's hand quickly obscured his vision as her palm jammed forward, pie-facing him into the floor and away from her child.
"Leave him alone! He's very upset right now," Bulma scolded the shapeshifter as she rose from her place by the table. "All of his friends, his father – even he, himself! – are out there right now! How would you do under those circumstances, Oolong?"
Despite the decibel and aggressiveness of her voice, Bulma's facial expression betrayed her as she leant over her fitful son. Gently, she rocked the basinet, her frown deepening as the wails from her son struck her as particularly guttural. Lifting him into her arms, she flashed an apologetic smile to Muten Roshi – who merely nodded in acknowledgement of her plight – before she moved wordlessly toward the entrance of the Kame House.
The breeze was warm outside as it billowed about the large leaves of the lone palm tree. Heavily, Bulma sighed and hefted her son against her chest, and her arms tightened protectively about the infant. His sobs were muffled into her bosom as she bounced him cajolingly, all the while her feet carrying her down the steps of the porch.
Her toes touched the sand sooner than she anticipated, startling her. Bulma looked down to find her red toenails obscured by the white grains as she dug her digits deeper into the ground. It was comforting, to feel planted there and safe. A glance down at her quieting child brought a bittersweet smile to her lips.
"You think so too, ne, Trunks-chan?"
The reprieve was short-lived, however, as a sharp crack of thunder rumbled violently and wicked bolts illuminated the horizon. Bulma jerked her head up at the brash sound and found the vibrant hues glimmering in the distance and reflected in the churning waters spread out before her. Below her, she felt the beginnings of tremors, as the tiny bits of sand tickled over her bare feet. She wiggled her toes, unearthing them, while her arm resumed its earlier motions to abate Trunks' fresh cries. Whimpering all the while, Trunks attempted to bury himself against his mother's breast.
"I know, I know," she soothed him, a new tremble touching her own voice. "I don't feel good about it either, Trunks-chan. But there's nothing we can do for them now."
Her son was seemingly unsatisfied, his fussing into her shirt growing exponentially. Bulma exhaled weakly and rerouted her gaze to fall upon the horizon once more. The fantastic shades of golden and blue fought valiantly against the menacing push of the storm clouds overhead, yet it seemed to no avail.
"It's overwhelming," she spoke to no one in particular. She felt as though she were talking to the wind as it picked up its pace, tossing her sea-foam locks about her shoulders. "It's more than we expected, isn't it?" A frown creased between her eyebrows, and Bulma bit at the inside of her lip to prevent the sting at lingered at the corners of her eyes. "Did we even do enough?"
She thought of her friends who were out there, beyond her point of vision and beyond safety. How impossible it seemed that they may return unscathed. Her heart felt as though it were lodged in her throat, unmoving as her gullet constricted. If the worst happened, none of them could be returned to Earth.
The Dragonballs could not save them this time; it chilled her to the bone to think of it. An odd smile quirked at her mouth as Bulma remembered the orange orbs that led her into this tumultuous lifestyle. If she had never heard of them, if she had never sought them out, would she be standing here at the edge of the sea, wondering if she'd see tomorrow?
Her heartstrings pulled taught and Bulma ducked her head to stifle a snivel.
Another strike of lightening tore against the sky, and she envisioned Vegeta. His endless training, his rigorous schedule. How many times did he nearly kill himself? The effort she and her father poured into aiding him. Oh, what they endured for that brute, and for what? To find that it might all be for naught?
"How infuriated does that make you out there? Knowing that now?" Bulma asked aloud, her voice carrying a mocking cadence, as she hoped her question might be carried out by the wind.
By now, the warm ball cradled in her arms had quelled its crying and shaking, and Bulma looked down to find Trunks nestled against her, fast asleep. A ghost of a grin slid over her features. "Even when facing our planet's demise, you have better things to do," she murmured into his tuft of lavender hair, her lips planting a loving kiss at his forehead as he slumbered.
Pulling her face away, Bulma observed her sleeping infant, and the curve of her mouth swayed slightly. "You're so much like him, it appalls me sometimes," she whispered, before she stole another glance out to sea.
The colors of the atmosphere had shifted and the grey-blue of the sky was melting into reddish gold. It unsettled her, and Bulma pulled her son closer into her.
Author's Note: This one's obviously set DURING the actual Cell Games.
I chose to write from Bulma's POV because she comes more naturally to me than Vegeta. That's not to say I won't do a Vegeta-centric shot, though! Fear not! I just kinda wanted to explore what she might be thinking and feeling during that period of time. This piece was inspired by Snow Patrols "The Lightening Strike" -- it might help the flow of it if you listen to it while reading!