Chapter 8: The Saiyan Genome Project
Capsule Corporation was officially losing its damn mind.
Vikini was already plotting holiday-themed outfits for a baby that wouldn't even be sentient enough to appreciate them. "Stars, a baby in the house!" she chirped, usually while tottering inside under a mini-mountain of boutique bags. At this rate, the kid had more wardrobe options than all of West City's toddler population combined.
Bulma hadn't asked for the gender. "Life needs suspense," she'd said—and her mother had taken that as a green light to buy everything. Blue rompers, pink dresses, neutral-toned ensembles with suspiciously expensive tags. There was even a space-themed onesie that read Future Commander. It had epaulettes. Epaulettes.
And the shoes. Gods, the shoes.
Meanwhile, Dr. Briefs had gleefully embraced the role of doting grandfather-slash-inventor-gone-mad. The crib hovered. The baby seat for the aircar reclined, transformed, and played ambient jazz. There was a bottle warmer with a built-in lullaby chip. Bulma wasn't convinced any of it was safe, but honestly? Watching her dad excitedly sketch schematics for a "nap-optimized fetal exopod" was kind of... sweet.
Everyone was preparing for the baby.
Except her.
She was preparing for something else.
Field Observation Log: Saiyan Male, Specimen V
Current status: sulking on her lab bench like a prisoner of war. Arms crossed. Mood: thundercloud. Pride level: terminal.
She flicked the needle with theatrical flair, mostly for effect.
"Don't tense," she said, swabbing his arm.
"I'm not tensing," he snapped, while visibly flexing like he was mid-battle.
Subject remains in denial about basic anatomy. Medical compliance: low. Ego: still weaponized.
"You're making it harder."
"You said this was the last one."
"It is," she said brightly. "Probably."
She grinned—a little mad-scientist, a little menace—and slid the needle in with clinical precision. He didn't flinch, naturally. This was a man who ate energy blasts for breakfast. A needle was basically a love tap.
Still, it felt... weird.
Not the blood draw. Him. Here. Letting her do this. Letting her touch him, even if it was technical, medical, totally detached from that other thing they didn't talk about anymore.
She extracted the vial and labeled it calmly, then turned to the centrifuge without so much as a glance.
"That's it. Your royal blood is now officially part of Capsule Corp's top-secret genetic archive. You may bask in the honor."
"Just fix the damn drones."
She rolled her eyes.
Affection level: zero.
Communication skills: subpar.
Cooperation: suspiciously high.
He hadn't asked what she was doing. Not once. No "Why are you drawing blood?" No "What do you expect to find?"
Which, in Vegeta-speak, probably meant he knew.
That this wasn't just about her scientific curiosity. That buried under the pep rallies and pink booties, Bulma Briefs was quietly panicking.
Because what do you expect when you're expecting a half-alien baby?
She'd been tracking everything. Hormones. Cravings. Mood swings. So far? Mostly normal.
Unless you counted the sudden, inexplicable obsession with green olives. Or the two fainting spells. Or the moment where she swore she could hear a stereo three floors below her office.
Psychosomatic? Maybe. Saiyan-related? Terrifyingly possible.
She needed data. Not theories. Not instincts. Hard facts.
And now, with his blood, she had the missing piece.
"You're being awfully cooperative," she said lightly.
"I didn't say no."
Translation: I care, but admitting that would kill me.
Filed under: Vegeta—emotional avoidance techniques, advanced tier.
She didn't smile, but her typing picked up speed. The sequencing software loaded, bands of color unfurling in luminous strands—his DNA folding together with hers.
"If you must know," she murmured, "it's probably nothing."
He didn't respond. But she felt his eyes on her—sharp, steady, like he was reading over her shoulder.
"My dad thinks Saiyan and human genes are surprisingly compatible. Even with the power difference."
She tapped her nails against the desk, tone casual. "Best evidence being Gohan. Obviously."
Still no reaction. Not a flicker.
"But that's one case. A polite, well-adjusted case. One who wouldn't threaten to incinerate me if I asked for a cheek swab." She sighed. "Not that I'd get the chance. Chi-Chi would straight-up murder me."
A pause.
"I haven't told anyone yet. About the baby. Kinda want to keep it that way for a bit."
That earned her a look. Not judgmental. Just quiet. Logged and filed.
She turned back to the screen.
"So no, I'm not trying to build a super soldier. I just want to know if this kid is going to be okay. Physically. Genetically."
A beat.
"Or if they're going to burst out of my chest and conquer the planet."
Still nothing.
She sighed. "That was a joke. You seriously need to watch more Earth movies."
He scowled. "Your sense of humor is broken."
"And you have the emotional capacity of a rice cracker. Yet here we are."
The centrifuge whirred down. The silence stretched long enough to feel like a truce.
Then—
"You said that boy was strong."
Her head snapped up.
"Gohan? Yeah," she blinked. "Scary strong. Stronger than even Son-Kun was at that age. Why?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked away, like the air had turned heavier.
"Maybe your father's theory isn't wrong."
Not praise. Not agreement. But close. The Vegeta version of support.
Bulma looked back at the screen.
The DNA glowed. Twisted together. His and hers.
"Maybe it isn't," she whispered.
Then briskly: "Alright, you're free to go."
He made it halfway to the door before she stopped him.
"Wait. Before you disappear into your gravity dungeon again…"
He paused, clearly annoyed.
"If this is about another blood draw—"
"It's not," she said, spinning in her chair. "It's about culture."
That got him.
"This baby—" she gestured vaguely at her stomach "—already kicks harder when you're in the room. So I figure they might be... curious about your side of the family."
A flicker. Barely there.
"So," she said casually, "you mentioned something about Saiyan moms only sticking around for the first year? What's that about?"
His shoulders tensed.
"It's simple," he said, voice flat. "Saiyan infants were bred to fight. No room for weakness. If they survived the first year, they were strong enough to train. If not... they weren't worth the resources."
Bulma made a face. "No lullabies? No baby booties? No pastel cake with the little candle?"
He glared. "We valued strength."
She crossed her arms. "And the moms?"
"If they cared... they might try to hide it. Keep weaker children off the battlefield. It never worked. They were always found."
She blinked. "So the only time a Saiyan mom shows love is when she's committing treason?"
He said nothing. But his jaw clenched.
She softened. "What about yours? Royal protocol and all that. Did she... stick around?"
He didn't look at her. "A royal child was kept on-planet. Trained. Prepared to rule."
"And if they weren't strong enough?"
He met her gaze. Voice sharp. "The blood of royalty is never weak."
She didn't flinch. Just jotted something down on a notepad she wasn't actually using.
Then, more gently: "I'm not trying to mock you. I just don't want this kid growing up not knowing where they came from. I don't need some bedtime story. I just want the truth."
Something passed through his expression. Fast. Gone before she could name it.
"I don't tell stories," he muttered.
And then he left—without slamming the door.
Bulma stared at it for a beat too long.
This is our life now.
After she'd stopped pretending he was going to be "Dad of the Year," things had... settled. Not into romance. Not into domestic bliss. Just a rhythm.
An uneasy, stubborn kind of rhythm.
It wasn't that he was eager to help. Most days she had to bargain like a black market trader—one drone upgrade for ten minutes of blood pressure tracking. A new suit of armor for a basic medical scan. A gravity-safe protein bar the size of a hovercar just to get him to sit.
But when it mattered? He didn't say no.
And maybe that was enough.
Maybe this was partnership.
Just... y'know. With one emotionally constipated warrior prince, and one chronically overworked genius who didn't know how to stop loving people who might never love her back.
No fairy tales here. Just facts. And DNA. And whatever came next.
She huffed and rubbed at her eyes. Once, back when things were simple (read: when Yamcha was still cheating on her and Vegeta hadn't crash-landed into her life like a grumpy, muscled asteroid), she'd joked that she wanted someone strong enough to keep up with her—and smart enough to leave her alone when she was working.
Careful what you wish for.
Because now? Now she was pregnant with a half-alien baby, decoding royal DNA like it was an ancient grudge written in protein strands, and trying to extract half-formed emotional confessions from a guy who treated eye contact like it was an act of war.
And still…
Still, he showed up.
Still, he gave her the blood.
Still, he answered most of her questions—grunted them, sure, but it counted.
And that one quiet moment—"Maybe your father's theory isn't wrong"—was going to take up rent-free real estate in her brain for the next week. Maybe longer. She wasn't proud of that.
She looked back at the screen. Two double helixes, spiraling in slow, perfect chaos. Beautiful. Complicated. Full of potential.
Our kid's going to be a statistical nightmare, she thought. And I wouldn't trade them for the universe.
She saved the data, powered down the interface, and whispered into the dim hum of the lab, "Welcome to the world, baby. Your parents are weird as hell."
A beat.
"…But we're trying."
Gravity Room – Capsule Corp, two days later.
Payback day.
Bulma was already there, naturally. She'd come early to upgrade the drones like she'd promised, but also—if she was being honest—to squeeze out a few more cultural insights from a certain emotionally constipated Saiyan. For science, of course.
She adjusted the control panel with a soft grunt, one hand braced on the gentle curve of her belly while the other tightened a bolt with practiced ease. The machine above her thrummed with restrained power—more gravity, more challenge, not enough to kill him. Just enough to remind him that she didn't forget.
Wiping a streak of sweat from her temple, she called out casually, "So… these 'weak babies' Saiyans used to yeet across the galaxy—Son-kun was one of those, right?"
A sharp tch sliced through the air behind her. She didn't need to look to know he was standing there, arms crossed, wearing that classic 'how dare you say Kakarot's name in my presence' scowl.
"You've been down there too long," he snapped. "Are you almost done?"
Bulma smirked to herself. Bingo.
"Wow," she drawled. "You almost sound worried."
"I said no such thing," he said flatly. "But… after all, that's royal blood you're carrying."
She blinked. Something clicked, so now he was talkig about the baby? Just like that?
The wrench slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor with a metallic clang. For a moment, she just stared at it. Then she slid out from under the panel and stood up—slower now, pregnancy catching up to her. Grease streaked her cheek, her hair clung to her face, but her eyes were diamond sharp.
"Royal blood," she repeated, like it tasted off. "From what—space dust and bad attitude?"
His brow twitched. Barely. But she saw it, and that was enough.
"You've spent weeks telling me you don't care," she said, tone deceptively light. "About Earth. About me. About anything."
Her voice tightened. "So don't you dare start acting like some noble baby-daddy now just because you can't hear Goku's name without having a superiority crisis. Don't use this kid as a prop."
"It's not an excuse," he said, jaw tight. "It's the truth. Royal blood requires—"
"Oh, what, a royal decree now?" she cut in. "Heads up, your highness—your planet's been literal space gravel for decades."
He didn't back off. She hadn't expected him to.
She stepped closer. Something in her chest was buzzing—irritation, hormones, maybe both.
"You think my kid needs a title from a dead planet? Look around. Capsule Corp runs this world. We're not building empires out of bloodlines—we're building satellites and clean energy and gravity chambers you beg to use."
Still no reaction. Not really. But she could see it—a flicker behind the stillness.
"So that's your legacy?" he said finally. "Queen of a mudball full of weaklings."
Bulma let out a low laugh—dry, sharp. "Better than being the prince of a place where 'dad' is just another word for 'trainer.'"
She turned her back on him, crouched to retrieve the wrench. Her voice was cooler now, calculated. "So unless you're planning to actually stick around, do us both a favor and skip the parenting commentary."
He didn't answer.
She could feel him behind her—statue-still, but heavy, like his presence warped gravity all on its own.
Sliding back under the panel, she tried to focus on wires, settings, the warm hum of circuits. But it was pointless.
She slid back out and narrowed her eyes. "What now?"
"No."
She blinked. "No what?"
"I'm leaving."
The words didn't land right. For a moment, she thought he meant the room. Maybe the building. A sulky fly-around-the-yard type of dramatic exit.
But his face didn't look like a man heading to the backyard.
"Leaving?" she echoed. "Where?"
"There's a planet," he said. "Isolated. No distractions."
His gaze flicked—brief, too fast—toward her stomach. Then back up. "I need to master my Super Saiyan form."
Ah.
Of course.
Her hand tightened around the wrench before she set it down with a little more force than was necessary.
She'd told him he could go. Told herself she wouldn't stop him. That she wouldn't be that woman. She'd meant it.
But it still sucked.
"Go chase your golden glow, Vegeta," she said coolly.
He didn't flinch. Just stood there, a shadow cut out by fluorescent light.
"You do your thing," she said, voice lifting with false brightness. "This baby doesn't need you."
She turned back fast, like she had better things to do. Like her heart wasn't quietly folding in on itself.
Just bolts. Just circuits. Just wires. Nothing else.
Behind her came the quietest answer she'd ever heard from him.
"…Good."
Footsteps. Measured. Metal on metal. No apology. No goodbye. Just retreat.
Then—he stopped.
"I'll leave in two days."
And then, barely audible. Almost gentle.
She didn't turn. Didn't breathe.
And then he was gone.
Capsule Corp, two days later – 10:09 PM
The launch bay sequence was humming again.
Of course it was. Because the man couldn't do anything like a normal person—not train, not flirt (if that's what you could even call it), and definitely not say goodbye. Had to sneak off like a one-night stand who realized feelings might've been involved.
Bulma took a sip of her weird green prenatal sludge. It tasted like lawn clippings blended with regret.
"Four more months of this," she muttered, "and I'm going back to espresso. Screw the fetus."
She grabbed a small capsule case and headed for the pad.
And there he was. The prince of dramatics doing his best impression of someone not making a dramatic exit—crouched by the pod, checking numbers like this was any other Tuesday. No drawn-out silence. No long look over the shoulder. Just flipping switches and prepping for takeoff like she wasn't even here.
"Here," she said, stepping up. "Living module, real food, a shower that doesn't turn your sweat into nutrient paste. I even threw in a couple power converters. You're welcome, Your Highness."
He reached for the case—and froze.
So did she.
A sharp, mean twist hit her gut. Not a cramp exactly, but close. Her balance tipped. Just for a second.
His hand shot out. Not for the capsule—for her. Her wrist.
The case hit the ground with a soft thunk.
She caught herself with her free hand—on his chest, because of course. Real convenient for her dignity. "It's the baby," she said, half-laughing. "Kicks like a goddamn World Martial Arts Champion when you're near. Cute, right?"
His hand dropped like she'd burned him.
He turned his face away. Jaw tight.
She felt herself scrambling to fill the silence before it turned into something unbearable.
"Don't worry, I'm not here to stop you." Her voice was breezy. Like they were just acquaintances. Like this didn't hurt. "We had a deal, remember? You get your Super Saiyan. And then maybe…"
She paused. Maybe what, Bulma?
"...we talk about something else."
Something that wasn't power levels or bloodlines or pretending none of this ever happened.
She stepped back. He bent, grabbed the case. Nodded like she was giving him mission specs.
Then he turned toward the pod. And—pause.
"The other day…" he said quietly. Didn't look at her. "I meant what I said. About royal blood. It's too strong. Mothers have to be strong."
Bulma blinked. Wait. Wait.
Was that… was that his version of checking in?
Her brain immediately replayed the old line: "It's not an excuse," he'd said, face locked up tight. "It's the truth. Royal blood requires—"
Requires a strong mother.
Translation: You should take it easy. Saiyan babies are hell on the body. Sorry your insides feel like they're being rearranged by a martial artist the size of a grapefruit.
Filed under: Vegeta — cryptic speech, impossible to decode without subtitles.
He climbed into the pod. Hand hovered over the hatch button.
And she moved.
Before she could stop herself—before he could stop her—she stepped inside.
Cramped. Same model he'd used when he first crash-landed here. No space for pride, barely space for two humans.
She didn't ask. Just climbed into his lap, straddling him.
His eyes went wide. Caught off guard for once.
She grabbed his face in both hands. Hers were shaking, damn it. But her voice wasn't. "Forgive me," she said, "just this one time."
And then she kissed him.
Not gently. Not apologetically.
Like a woman kissing the father of her child. Like someone who'd missed him so deeply it had rotted something inside her. Like someone who didn't care anymore what it meant, as long as it meant something.
The thing inside her belly did a somersault. Either in protest or excitement—jury was still out.
Vegeta didn't move at first. But then—there. The shift. He kissed her back. Not much, not wildly, but enough. His fingers twitched, like they wanted to hold her but didn't know how. Or didn't think they were allowed.
She stayed close. Close enough to breathe the same air, to feel the warmth under all that armor he wore like a shield.
God, she'd missed him.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked when she finally leaned back.
His voice was sharp. His eyes blazed.
But his ears were pink.
Bulma slid off him, slow and smug. Like a cat who just knocked something off a shelf on purpose.
"Just a little reminder," she said, tossing her hair. "In case you forget what you're training so hard to come back to."
He scoffed. Turned away.
"Tch."
The hatch hissed shut.
She stayed where she was, arms crossed, watching the ship rise into the sky.
Let's see if you really don't care, she thought. Stubborn bastard.
She was still smiling.
The kiss hadn't faded from her lips.