CHAPTER FIVE- The Controlled Variables Seduction
Capsule Corp Lab – 08:56 AM
Bulma adjusted a few variables on the holographic readout of a new alloy compound. She'd been working on it for days—something useful, cutting-edge, profitable.
And, unfortunately, something for someone else.
She refused to think about that someone else.
Not after the conversation. (If you could even call it that.)
Since then: no follow-up. No clarification. Not even a grunt. The topic of the thing had been filed away—mutually and wordlessly—as a closed case.
She tapped the alloy into rotation again, watching the projected graphs scroll across the screen. Clean lines. Predictable results. Nothing emotional about it.
This was fine.
This was normal.
"I moved on," she muttered to herself. "I'm working. I'm focused. I'm a professional."
Her eyes flicked toward the bench drawer.
Her hand twitched.
No. No more of that. The incident was over. Case closed. She was totally fine. A modern woman with bigger things to worry about than one emotionally defective Saiyan with a god complex and a nice—
Her hand moved anyway.
Drawer. Recorder. Click.
Her voice came on smooth—dry and brisk, like a chemical analysis with a touch of sarcasm.
"Subject V has been exhibiting erratic proximity behavior over the last few days."
A pause. Tap tap. Pen against her knee.
"Example One: I walked into the kitchen the other morning—not that early, not that late. He was already there. Arms crossed. Leaning against the wall like some brooding breakfast gargoyle."
"He looked at me. Made eye contact. I swear to Kami, it looked like he was going to say something. Something real. And then—nothing. Just turned and left. No toast. No scowl. Not even a grunt."
Sip. Tight lips. Bitter coffee.
"Example Two: He came into my lab."
The emphasis dropped like a weight.
"Which he never does willingly. I was under the impression he wouldn't, even if I were yelling 'Fire!' or actively electrocuting myself."
"He tossed an old glove onto the bench and said—and I quote—'The chestplate seems good enough.' Then just… stood there. Looked like he forgot how arms work. Opened his mouth, closed it, muttered, 'Make it better.' Then vanished."
She side-eyed the current project.
"I am assuming—generously—that this was a request. Possibly even a compliment."
Ahem.
"Example Three: We bumped into each other in the hallway. Literally. Shoulder to shoulder. He froze like he'd seen a ghost, spun mid-step, and walked the other way."
Another pause. Thoughtful now.
"Also—unconfirmed—but I'm pretty sure I've heard pacing outside my bedroom door. More than once. Could've been the cat. Could've been my own imagination. Could've been Subject V, stalking around like a confused space panther."
She sighed.
"Conclusion: Something's up. He's acting like he wants to say something—or do something—but can't figure out how to do either without choking on his own pride."
A beat.
"Typical."
She leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Then:
Click. The recorder powered down.
Enough notes. Enough observation.
"Fine," she muttered, pushing back from the desk. "I'll initiate contact this time. See how he reacts."
Ten Minutes Later – Gravity Chamber Entrance
Vegeta's energy signature pulsed from inside—strong, steady, controlled chaos. The readout showed 300x gravity and a lone drone circling him like a predator.
Bulma leaned in and hit the intercom.
"Hey, can we talk—?"
That was all it took.
His head snapped toward the speaker—half a second too late. The drone struck him square in the chest, throwing him backwards. He hit the reinforced floor with a thud and skid.
"Shit!"
Bulma slammed the gravity controls. The chamber whined as it powered down.
She was inside before the whine even faded, lab coat flaring behind her.
"Are you okay?"
She crouched without thinking, hand outstretched.
He slapped it away—not rough, but sharp. Immediate.
"I don't need your help."
Bulma blinked.
Then she saw it.
His ears.
Flushed. Burning.
So were his cheeks, just faintly.
He wasn't looking at her. Eyes locked on some far corner of the floor like it owed him answers.
Oh.
So that's what this is.
She almost smirked. Almost said something awful like "Got distracted thinking about me?"—but held it back.
Not this time.
She stood. Brushed off her coat.
"Okay," she said simply. And turned to leave.
She didn't see him flinch.
Didn't need to.
Capsule Corp Stairwell – A Few Minutes Later
Bulma leaned against the railing, cool air brushing her face. Her footsteps had brought her here on autopilot.
"He's like a cat," she muttered aloud. "The more you pull, the harder he pushes."
A pause.
"So he's avoiding me because he's attracted? Seriously? What—does he think I'm gonna jump him again?"
A flash of panic.
"Wait… is he afraid of me?"
She rubbed her temples. That old voice came crawling back—Yamcha's stupid laugh.
"You know, one day your kink's gonna scare a guy off for real."
Ugh.
"For the record, I wasn't even that kinky," she snapped at no one. "Okay—maybe a little. I was sixteen. That version of me thought leather boots and bunny suits were empowering."
A beat.
"Classic me was spicy. Not terrifying."
But still…
This wasn't just avoidance. Or shame. Or pride.
It clicked.
That hesitation in the lab. The request-that-wasn't-a-request. The weird tension.
That wasn't about armor.
He wants something from me.
She froze.
Eyes wide. Face flushed.
"Oh."
Later – Capsule Corp Garden, Past Midnight
The air smelled like cut grass and bioluminescent roses—her mom was at it again. Blue and violet flickers pulsed like lazy fireflies among the hedges.
Bulma stepped barefoot onto the patio, favorite mug in hand. Cooling tea. Untouched.
She hadn't meant to come out here. Just needed out—of the lab, of her own head.
"Okay. So he's into me."
The ears. The stares. The pacing like some hormone-addled Saiyan tiger.
"And I—fine—I might not be totally immune."
But the first time had been chaos. Emotional static. Hormones and momentum and months without a boyfriend.
She could write it off.
Now?
Now it would be intentional. If she made the first move again—set the stage, left the door open—that wasn't just chemistry.
That was a choice.
Her choice.
"If I move first, I'm choosing this. Him."
She stared up at the stars.
"Oh God. I'm planning a seduction strategy for a battle-scarred alien with zero EQ and a vendetta against shirts."
She didn't notice the glow under the pergola. Or the figure hunched at the bench.
"Hey, pumpkin," came the familiar voice. "Contemplating planetary conquest or just having a mental breakdown?"
Bulma blinked.
"…That obvious?"
Dr. Briefs patted the bench beside him, elbow-deep in the guts of a defunct cat-feeding drone.
"You only come out here after ten when you're working through a moral dilemma, a broken prototype, or a crush. Sometimes all three."
She plopped down beside him with a sigh. He handed her a screwdriver. She took it automatically.
They worked in silence. Sparks danced, tools hummed.
Then:
"Let's say—hypothetically—someone's done some bad things. Real bad."
Dr. Briefs nodded.
"Not the coffee-stealing kind."
"Exactly. Like, actual bad. And maybe they've changed. Or they're trying to."
She twirled the screwdriver.
"Not saying it. Just… showing it. In tiny, infuriating, hard-to-interpret ways."
A long pause.
"Would it be stupid to give that person a chance? Even if… everyone else would call it a mistake?"
Dr. Briefs didn't look up.
"When you've been in science long enough, you see a lot of brilliant people take wrong turns. Pride. Fear. Ambition. It's easy to lose your way."
He glanced over.
"But the real question is never who someone was. It's who they're trying to become."
Bulma said nothing. He soldered two leads. Green light. Success.
"If someone stumbles—shouldn't we at least give them the chance to stand back up?"
She stared into her mug.
Still silent.
Dr. Briefs gave her a side glance.
"And, purely hypothetically… if this mystery person ever gets out of line?" He set down the tool. "Well. I've still got that old shock collar prototype somewhere in the lab."
She froze.
Then slowly turned.
"…You know."
He smiled. Not sheepishly. Just kindly.
"Pumpkin," he said, "I've always known."
Capsule Corp Lab – Later
The lights were dimmed low in the lab, humming quietly like an animal at rest. A breeze drifted through the cracked window, carrying the scent of ozone and jasmine from the garden.
Bulma stood at her desk, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at a blank project slate.
A cup of tea steamed beside her. She hadn't touched it.
Not since the talk with her dad.
"It's never about who they were. It's about who they're trying to become."
She exhaled slowly.
Fine.
He's trying.
In his own awful, clumsy, grunting way.
And if she was honest with herself…
So was she.
She tapped the slate and pulled up an old project: environmental sensors and passive signal beacons for long-range stealth surveillance. Originally designed to track wildlife.
Tonight, she was tracking something else.
"Experiment Log 006: Controlled Environment and Observation — Subject V," she murmured to herself.
She smirked. Then got to work.
Capsule Corp – Upper Wing, Guest Quarters – Early Evening
She knocked twice. Sharp, efficient.
No answer.
She didn't wait.
"Maintenance call," she chirped as she opened the door.
The room was dim, lit only by the orange wash of the evening sun through the blinds. Predictably spartan. Gravity weights in the corner. Training gear flung over a chair. Boots by the wall in precise military alignment.
Vegeta stood near the window, shirtless, arms crossed, scowling like the sunset had personally offended him.
"Your shower's been acting up," she announced. "Reported glitch in the pressure regulator."
He didn't blink.
"I didn't report anything."
"Oh no, you wouldn't," she replied cheerfully, heading toward the bathroom with a toolbox. "But the system logs everything. It's been fluctuating for days. Dangerous if left unchecked."
(Technically true. After she tampered with the pressure nodes.)
He muttered something under his breath—possibly a curse, possibly her name in seventeen different tones of skepticism.
She ignored it.
The bathroom was warm, still steam-kissed from recent use. High-tech, spacious, infuriatingly ergonomic. The showerhead was mounted too high for her to reach without standing on something. Or someone.
Which, of course, was part of the plan.
She called out casually, "Vegeta. I need a lift."
Silence.
"If you lift me up, I can fix it in ten seconds. Tops."
Another pause.
Then the doorframe creaked.
He appeared behind her, all tension and suspicion.
"Fine," he said gruffly. He stepped in, braced his arms under hers, and hoisted her up like she weighed nothing.
Bulma yelped. "Hey! A little warning next time?"
"You said lift," he grunted. "Not coddle."
Her tank top rode up. Her legs dangled. She very deliberately did not think about where his hands were.
She reached for the valve, twisted the connector—
—and the showerhead exploded in a wild blast of water.
Both of them were soaked in a second.
"Oh nooo," she deadpanned, twisting the real valve and cutting the water off.
Silence.
Dripping silence.
Vegeta lowered her to the floor like she was made of unstable chemicals. His hands dropped from her waist as if she'd burned him.
But his eyes didn't move.
Her tank top clung. The romper had slipped off one shoulder.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Vegeta stood frozen.
Water dripped from his hair, trailing down the rigid lines of his arms. His ears were red. His eyes locked onto her now-soaked tank top, clinging to every inch of skin it had no business touching.
His jaw clenched. His hands twitched.
Still—he didn't move.
Bulma narrowed her eyes.
"Are you going to take me or not, you idiot?"
No response. Just that intense, wild stare and the faintest hitch in his breath.
She groaned.
"I cannot believe I have to kiss you first again."
And she did.
She surged forward, grabbed the front of his shirt—her tank plastered to her body—and kissed him hard.
For a breathless second, he didn't react.
Then—he kissed her back.
Rougher. Hungrier. Like something in him had finally snapped free of its leash.
When she broke the kiss, he was panting. Flushed. And—by some miracle—not retreating.
"Look, Vegeta," she said, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face, "I know you wanted to redeem yourself from last time. Want some pointers?"
"I don't need a teacher," he muttered, voice low and rough. "Just tell me what you like."
Bulma grinned.
"Okay…" she whispered, guiding him backward toward the bed, "you're gonna want to sit down for this."
He did.
And this time, his hands came to rest on her hips—tense at first, then anchoring.
She straddled his lap, pressed her forehead to his, and lingered there just long enough to see it:
That wicked smirk.
Barely there. Sharp-edged. Flame-hot.
It was telling her that he was ready to learn—not because she told him to, but because he wanted to understand her.
She pulled him into another kiss.
And this time, the student was already catching up fast.