Chapter Three: Culture Shock Therapy (Prince Edition)
Breakfast at Capsule Corp was usually a quiet affair, at least when explosions weren't rattling the foundation before sunrise. This morning, Bulma sat at the kitchen table in a robe that had seen better days, coffee mug in hand, staring blankly at her eggs like they were plotting something. A faint scent of ozone lingered in the air, mingling with the aroma of coffee and frying food. Her father was buried behind the newspaper. Her mother, meanwhile, moved through the kitchen in a cloud of hairspray and syrup, humming the kind of tune one only heard in beach resort commercials.
"Oh, good morning, sweetheart!" her mother chirped, sliding another pancake onto the growing stack. "I made extra today! Pancakes, toast, omelets, bacon—do you want strawberries or whipped cream or both? You need protein, you know. Especially with you-know-who breaking all those machines again!"
Bulma groaned softly and sipped her coffee like it was medicine. Maybe it was. Emotional aspirin.
"Maybe don't mention him before she's caffeinated, dear," Dr. Briefs murmured from behind the paper.
"Oh, don't be silly," her mother said, flipping another pancake with flair. "I think Vegeta's sweet. Just a little grumpy in the mornings!"
Footsteps echoed from the hallway—heavy, deliberate. The floor vibrated slightly with each step. Training session complete, probably. Bulma didn't even have to look up to know who it was. Still, she did.
Sure enough, Vegeta passed the open dining room door like a walking warhead. Shirtless. Towel over his shoulder. Sweat still glistening along the sharp lines of his back. He didn't even glance inside.
"Vegeta!" her mother called sweetly. "Darling! Come sit with us! I made pancakes!"
His reply came sharp and automatic. "Hmph. Out of my way, woman."
He didn't slow. Didn't flinch. Just kept walking.
"Oh, maybe later then!" her mother sang, undeterred.
Bulma stared after him, deadpan. Then slowly turned back to her plate. She picked up a piece of bacon and chewed on it thoughtfully.
Look at him real good, Bulma. That's the guy, huh? The walking snarl. The breakfast criminal.
Are you seriously considering an attraction to that kind of person?
She sighed. You really have to hand it to your self-destructive instincts. First Yamcha, now this. What's next—an intergalactic warlord with anger management issues and a poetry hobby?
Her eyes flicked back toward the hallway, even though he was already gone.
But.
Her thoughts slipped sideways, unbidden, into memory.
He could've killed me.
That was a fact. No exaggeration, no dramatic flourish. Just math. Just Namek.
Back then, he had the power. The chance. More than once. And every time, he took what he needed and moved on. Not because he cared.
Because I wasn't worth the effort.
She'd been terrified of him. All of them had. Gohan, Krillin—she remembered the way they'd all huddled in that cave, whispering like mice, praying they weren't next. And Vegeta, stalking through the planet like a wolf among sheep.
And yet…
He turned on Frieza's men. Killed Dodoria. Zarbon. Not for them. Not for justice.
But not for Frieza, either. He played both sides like a pro, she thought. Smart. Cunning. Tactical.
It had been his idea to use the Namekian Dragon Balls. He suggested the phrasing. He understood the system. When she realized what he was doing—how fast his mind worked—she remembered thinking, Huh. That's actually clever.
And then he died. He cried. Tears on his face. Blood in his mouth. Telling Goku to avenge them all.
She hadn't known what to do with that moment then. She still didn't. But it lived rent-free in her brain all the same.
And afterward?
She invited him home.
No regrets.
She was logical like that.
Because I'm not stupid. I know how this world works.
You want to survive in a place where aliens drop out of the sky and scream your name before vaporizing your neighborhood? You keep the dangerous ones close. You make friends with the ones who could break the planet in half.
It's how I handled Goku. Back when he was still small and feral and thought bathing was optional. I fed him. Helped him. Taught him what a toothbrush was.
She tapped a nail against her mug. I thought maybe—just maybe—I could do the same with Vegeta.
But so far, it wasn't going well.
Bulma stepped into the hallway, coffee in one hand, recorder in the other, still scowling faintly at nothing in particular. He's harder. Meaner. Built out of sharp edges and spite. Doesn't care about belonging. Doesn't care about anyone. He won't even say thank you when my mom offers him pancakes.
She huffed.
It's not like it's hard. "Thank you." Two words. One brain cell. Even Yamcha managed it when he wasn't too busy being unfaithful.
She paused, taking another sip.
Then frowned.
But… maybe he doesn't know any better?
It was a ridiculous thought.
Except… not entirely.
Her mind, cursed with inconvenient intelligence, jumped tracks.
Even Goku was like that once. A total menace. Didn't know how to eat with utensils. Didn't know how to talk to people. Went around touching girls' privates like it was a handshake.
Her eye twitched at the memory.
It took me to civilize him. Me and Chi-Chi, eventually, but mostly me. God knows what would've happened to this planet if I hadn't gotten to him first.
She stopped walking. Stared ahead, eyes widening slightly.
Then blinked.
"…Oh no."
The recorder in her hand was already primed. Her thumb hovered, then pressed.
Click.
"Project Log – Entry 003," she said aloud, voice a mix of exhaustion and dawning purpose. "Researcher: Bulma Briefs. Subject: Vegeta, professional grump and personal mistake."
She inhaled slowly, gathering steam.
"New working hypothesis: Subject's repulsive personality may not be entirely inherent. While violence and narcissism appear hardwired, traits such as arrogance, lack of empathy, and total social dysfunction may be a result of cultural conditioning."
She began pacing.
"Case study: Son Goku. Originally feral. Lived in the woods. Had zero understanding of bodily boundaries, gender dynamics, or soup spoons. But over time, became marginally functional in society—largely due to my influence, thank you very much."
A pause.
She passed the living room window, caught her own reflection in the glass.
"If Goku could become a person, maybe—just maybe—Vegeta can become slightly less of a feral goblin."
Another pause.
A twitch of a smirk.
"New objective: Experiment 003 – The Saiyan Civility Program. Phase One: cultural reprogramming."
She clicked the recorder off. Pocketed it. And smiled.
Not a sweet smile. The kind of smile that usually preceded mad science or property damage.
"You're a prince, huh?" she murmured, already turning on her heel. "Then it's about damn time you learned how to act like one."
Bulma stood in front of Vegeta's door, arms full—one hand holding a set of neatly folded clothes, the other gripping a slim datapad like it doubled as a clipboard and a shield. She knocked. Once. Twice.
No answer.
She sighed. "Vegeta, I know you're in there. Don't make me override the lock again."
Heavy footsteps. A hiss of hydraulics.
The door slid open.
Vegeta stood shirtless, sweat slick across his skin, a towel draped haphazardly around his neck. His hair was slightly damp, the result of either a rinse or sheer gravity-defiance fatigue. His chest rose and fell with the echo of spent effort.
Bulma blinked. Once. Then blinked again.
Focus, Briefs. You're here for science.
"What is it, woman?" he snapped, his usual scowl in place.
She took a breath. "You can't talk to my mom like that."
His eyes narrowed. "Talk like what?"
"She was being nice," Bulma said, voice sharp but not unkind. "She offered you food, like a normal human being, and you told her to—quote—'get lost.'"
"I'll eat when I'm hungry," he replied with a shrug. "And I'll eat what I can. When I can."
She raised a brow. "Yeah, I've heard about your charming Capsule Corp foraging habits—stealing fish from the koi pond, swiping leftover takeout, hunting birds in the backyard. I'm honestly surprised you haven't gnawed on one of our interns yet."
Vegeta scoffed, turning slightly, just enough to flex something purely by accident.
Bulma looked away quickly. "Seriously," she pressed, "eating insects like a savage? Aren't you supposed to be a prince?"
That did it. He turned back with fire in his eyes. "How dare you question my status!"
She smirked. Hah. There it is.
"I'm the princ—"
"Yeah, yeah," she interrupted, waving her hand in the air. "I know. 'The Prince of All Saiyans,'" she added, mimicking his voice in a theatrical growl, complete with air quotes. "It's practically your middle name at this point."
His eyes narrowed dangerously.
She stepped closer anyway.
"Well then," she said smoothly, "shouldn't the prince of all Saiyans actually manifest some royal behavior?"
Vegeta scoffed. "Hmph. Spare me your Earthling platitudes."
"No, I'm not. I'm talking image." She tilted her head, tone suddenly calm, logical—almost corporate. A strand of her blue hair fell across her cheek. "If you were a real prince, you'd understand your strength. You'd have the discipline not to humiliate weaker people just because you can. A true royal doesn't bark at women offering them hospitality. A true royal shows restraint. Presence. Decorum."
Vegeta didn't respond. But something shifted. Slightly. The furrow in his brow turned less hostile, more calculating.
She noticed.
"And secondly," she continued, taking full advantage of the silence, "a prince would have a more refined taste. My mother was providing you with that. You rejected it."
"I didn't ask for it," he muttered, glancing away.
"Doesn't matter," she snapped back. "It was a gift. From a woman who makes five-star meals in bunny slippers."
He grunted.
"And now that we're on the subject of taste," she said, holding up the clothes, "we should talk about this."
His eyes flicked to the folded bundle in her arms.
"That's not armor," he said flatly.
"Nope. It's clean. Soft. Made of Earth materials that don't smell like rage and gym socks. Also, there's a color palette."
He looked vaguely offended.
"A prince wouldn't walk around smelling like a fried circuit board, Vegeta," she added, thrusting the clothes toward him. "A prince would wear something that didn't look like it survived orbital re-entry."
"I don't need fashion to fight."
"No," she said, "but you do need clothes to walk into the kitchen. Starting now, I'm banning all sentient garments and self-clinging stench fields from common areas. Capsule Corp has standards."
She crossed her arms, looking up at him with practiced defiance.
Vegeta stared at her.
Silent. Tense. The air crackled with unspoken challenge.
Then, finally—"You are testing my patience, woman."
"And you're shirtless," she shot back, smirking. "So who's really winning this argument?"
Another beat of silence.
Then he snatched the clothes from her hand.
Not gently. But not violently, either.
She blinked.
"…Wait, are you—?"
"I didn't say I'd wear them," he said darkly. A hint of a smirk played on his lips. "I said you were annoying."
The door hissed closed.
Bulma stood outside it for a moment, stunned. Then slowly—very slowly—grinned.
She tapped her datapad and opened the recorder.
"Experiment 003 – Phase One: Status Report."
"Subject V resisted cultural critique, responded aggressively to perceived status threat. Standard behavior. However…"
A pause.
"Subject accepted clothing. Voluntarily. First contact with clean fabric successful."
Another pause.
"…Progress unclear. Mood: cautiously triumphant."
She clicked it off.
"Now let's see if he actually wears it."
Later that night, the Briefs family was halfway through dinner when Vegeta passed by the open dining room doors.
Again.
Nobody really knew how many times a day he trained—once? twice? seven? Sometimes it seemed like he'd just collapse, twitch for a bit, and reboot himself like a grumpy battle android. The lights flickered momentarily as he passed. This was probably his third session, judging by the sweat sheen and slight limp.
He didn't say anything. Just hovered.
Bulma noticed first. Then her mother, who looked up and beamed.
"Oh, Vegeta! Just in time, sweetheart. Why don't you join us?"
He didn't answer.
He just stared at the table.
And then—shockingly—sat down.
Bulma blinked, caught entirely off guard.
She recovered quickly. "Yes, thank you, Mrs. Briefs," she said pointedly, looking straight at him.
He glanced at her, face twisted like he was about to spit an ostrich egg right onto the centerpiece.
"…Thanks," he muttered.
It was barely audible. Like the word physically injured him on the way out.
Bulma hid her smirk behind her water glass.
"Oh! Stars!" her mother gasped, setting down a tray piled with food. "Thank God I made all this food! I keep forgetting Namekians only drink water."
Vegeta didn't hesitate. He reached directly for the roasted chicken with his bare hand.
Bulma cleared her throat. Loudly.
"The fork, Vegeta."
His eye twitched. He reached for it like it was a cursed artifact, then jabbed it straight into the middle of the chicken like a spear.
She sighed.
"You're supposed to use the fork. With the knife." She demonstrated, cutting a piece of meat like a civilized being.
He looked at her, unimpressed. "That seems unnecessarily inefficient. This is more direct."
He proceeded to tear into the food with the fork, shoveling with speed and accuracy that belonged in a wildlife documentary. The Briefs family said nothing. Even the cat looked alarmed, its fur standing on end.
Bulma stared down at her plate. This was… going to be a long experiment.
When he finally slowed down, she took the moment to study him. Sweaty. Again. And not wearing the clothes she'd given him.
Of course he wasn't.
He was back in that awful unitard. It clung to him like a second skin, stubbornly refusing to relinquish its hold, much like Vegeta himself with his pride. She half-expected him to be sleeping in it.
She got up from the table casually and followed him into the hallway as he left.
"Where are the clothes I gave you?" she asked, trying not to sound too annoyed.
He didn't stop walking. "They ripped. And burned."
She frowned. "What do you mean they—"
"Worst training suit you've ever made," he said flatly.
Bulma's jaw dropped. "That was not for training! Vegeta!"
He reached the gravity chamber door. His hand hovered over the panel.
She stepped closer.
"You know," she said, voice low, "you need to try harder if you want to be respected as a prince…"
That did it.
He turned his head slightly, not enough to meet her eyes, but enough to drop the temperature in the hallway. A shiver ran down Bulma's spine.
"Look, woman," he said, voice quiet and sharp. "I humored you. I don't know why. But don't think you can manipulate me like that without me noticing."
Her stomach dropped. "What?"
He finally looked at her. His glare could've melted titanium.
"You think I'm as stupid as Kakarot?" he growled. "You've been playing games. The stupid machine in my room? You thought I wouldn't figure it out?"
Bulma froze.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Abort mission. Abort mission now, her brain screamed.
But it was too late. He was furious.
And worse—he was right.
The door to the gravity room hissed open and Vegeta stepped through, every movement radiating pissed-off restraint. The air thrummed with his power. He didn't slam it—he didn't need to. His silence did the job.
Bulma didn't stop to think.
She stormed in after him like a very stylish hurricane, heels clacking against reinforced flooring, eyes ablaze.
"Do you think I'm playing games?" she snapped. "Why do you think I'm doing all this?!"
He turned slowly, brows low, jaw tight.
"I have an egocentrical, emotionally-stunted, borderline evil, semi-feral Saiyan warlord living under my roof—eating my food, breaking my tech, disrespecting my mother—and you're seriously shocked that I want to figure out how your head works?!"
Vegeta's eyes narrowed, but it wasn't rage this time. It was something else. A flicker of… intrigue?
"There is nothing to understand, woman," he growled. "You already described me perfectly."
He turned away, walking further into the chamber like that was the end of it.
But it wasn't.
"Yeah. Yeah, I did describe you perfectly," she said, following him. Her voice echoed slightly in the vast chamber. "And I would stick to that assessment if it weren't for that stupid, lousy kiss you gave me the other day!"
The words hung in the air like an explosion. Loud. Final.
Silence fell. Heavy and sharp, like steel dropped on concrete.
Bulma blinked, as if only now realizing she'd said it out loud.
Oh no. Oh no no no no—why did I say that? WHY did I say that?!
Vegeta turned, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Not cold.
Just… surprised.
Should I flee? she thought, wild-eyed. This is the moment, Bulma. Run. Get out. Gravity chamber? More like coffin.
But her legs didn't move.
He took a slow step toward her, gaze fixed. Still unreadable.
Then:
"What was wrong with the kiss?"
His voice wasn't defensive. It wasn't mocking.
It was… curious.
Curious?
Bulma's mouth opened, then closed. Her throat worked around a half-formed sentence. "No—nothing was wrong…" she stammered, stepping back instinctively toward the exit.
ABORT MISSION! ABORT MISSION!
"Tell me," he said, firmer now.
She froze.
He took another step forward. Too close.
Too close. Too hot. She could feel the heat of his body, the weight of his stare. The air crackled between them. He smelled like sweat and something older, deeper. Instinct. Effort. Battle.
It was disgusting.
Right?
"Show me"
So disgusting, Right?
Her body didn't think so.
Her hands moved before her brain could stop them, reaching for his face, fingers brushing against sharp cheekbones and damp skin. He didn't pull back.
She lingered.
Their lips hovered.
"Kisses are…" she said softly, almost forgetting herself, "…soft at first. Slow. You taste first. You feel."
She demonstrated.
It wasn't much—a light press of lips, barely there. But it was enough to draw a sound from him, low and involuntary, vibrating against her mouth.
She pulled back, breath shaky, unsure what she was doing—what she was proving—until her brain tried to reassert control.
This will show him. This will give him something to think abou—
His hands moved.
Not roughly.
But with certainty.
One arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his heat, the other at the nape of her neck, tilting her head back. There was no hesitation, no question in his eyes, only a focused intensity that made her breath hitch. His mouth met hers again—this time with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down her spine.
He wasn't trying anymore. He was taking.
His kiss was slower now, deeper. Measured. Still intense, but deliberate, as if he were mapping her mouth, learning its contours and weaknesses. The calluses on his hands, rough against her skin, contrasted sharply with the surprising softness of his lips. He tasted of sweat and something metallic, something wild. He exuded a raw, untamed power that both terrified and thrilled her.
And then—she made a sound.
A soft moan that escaped her control, vibrating through both of them. She hadn't meant to make a sound. But there it was—undeniable. And judging by the slight shift in his grip, he'd heard it. Felt it. Her hands clenched in his hair, fingers tangling in the damp, spiky strands. She felt a surge of heat, a dizzying rush that threatened to overwhelm her. She was losing herself in the intensity of him. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not like this. But her body didn't care. Her logic was already losing the war.
She pulled back first, eyes wide and unfocused, breath ragged. Her lips throbbed, and her body felt strangely heavy, languid. She wasn't sure if it was fear or desire, but she knew she was off balance.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to speak. The silence itself was a charged battleground.
Bulma's legs buckled. She would've collapsed if he hadn't still been holding her by the waist—solid, grounding, like gravity had realigned around him.
The instinct to flee had completely abandoned her.
And then he smirked. That familiar crooked grimace she'd always hated. It used to make her skin crawl.
But this time?
This time, it lit a fire low in her spine.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't disgust.
It was something deeper. Basic. Primal. A pull she hadn't known lived inside her until now.
And she gave in.
Not because she lost control. Not because she had no choice.
Because she wanted to.
Because whatever this was—whatever he was—had her cornered in all the right ways. And for once, her body didn't care what her brain had to say about it.
Bulma stood up slowly, muscles aching, hair a mess, pulse still embarrassingly out of rhythm. The air inside the gravity chamber was still heavy, humming faintly from the systems idling in the background.
She reached for her shirt.
And then her bra.
And then her pants.
She didn't look at the floor.
Didn't want to look. But she glanced anyway.
Vegeta lay there—unmoving, out cold, sprawled across the reinforced floor like a broken statue. A perfect contradiction: all sharp angles and power, but completely unconscious.
Well, that's new, she thought numbly, trying to fix her clothes enough to avoid suspicion.
She walked barefoot to the door, holding her shoes in one hand, stepping carefully over scattered bits of debris and Vegeta's clothing. Her reflection in the polished steel was chaos incarnate—lipstick smudged, neck blotchy, pupils dilated like she'd just witnessed a solar flare up close.
By the time she reached her lab, she'd mostly managed to reassemble herself. Mostly.
She collapsed into the chair, letting out a slow breath.
What were you thinking, Bulma?
She buried her face in her hands.
We already concluded he was the worst kind of person. The data is right there. Arrogant. Aggressive. Obnoxiously prideful. Uncooperative. Absolutely allergic to common decency.
Her fingers slid down her face.
But… is he?
Her eyes flicked toward the far wall, unfocused.
There were pieces she hadn't really considered before. Fragments that hadn't fit the narrative she'd been clinging to.
The way he trained—not just relentlessly, but obsessively. With purpose. Determination.
Like his life depended on every drop of sweat he shed.
She could relate to that. Trying hard, after all, was practically her hobby. Just in a different lab.
And tonight…
She thought back to him on the floor. Breath shallow. Eyes closed. Unconscious. So still.
Not scary. Not royal. Just… tired.
Vulnerable.
What is this…? she thought, frowning. Do I actually feel proud for making him pass out?
A pause.
She slapped a hand to her forehead. "You're a basket case, Bulma."
With a sigh, she reached across the desk, fingers curling around the familiar shape of the recorder. She held it for a second, debating.
Then: click.
"Project Log – Entry 003: Final Analysis."
Her voice was hoarse. A little scratchy. A lot less confident than usual.
"Objective: Teach Subject V basic civility. Results... mixed."
She exhaled.
"Test one: Politeness. Minor progress. Subject has demonstrated the ability to say 'thank you' under extreme social pressure, such as my direct eye contact and judgmental tone. Potential for future development: low to moderate."
She rolled the chair back and looked at the ceiling.
"Test two: Table manners. Subject successfully joined dinner. Used a fork. To impale a chicken. Still chewed like a garbage disposal, but… he sat down, which is apparently a win now. Room for improvement: infinite."
A pause. Her lips twitched.
"Test three: Hygiene and clothing. Catastrophic failure. Subject destroyed assigned wardrobe during unsanctioned training session and returned to smelly, unsanitary garments. Unclear whether this was a protest or just stupidity."
She tapped the recorder against her knee, expression faltering.
"Unexpected variable: physical escalation during post-test conflict resolution. …Subject demonstrated heightened responsiveness to physical stimuli. Possibly even… oversensitivity."
Another pause.
"Subject V may respond more positively to nonverbal instruction. Preliminary conclusion: he can be taught. At least in certain… areas."
She clicked the recorder off and stared at it for a long moment.
Then whispered to herself:
"…So the experiment was successful."
But even as she said it, she knew that wasn't the part that was bothering her.
What was bothering her… was how much she'd wanted to keep teaching him.