Chapter Nine – The Ki Drain Hypothesis
It began with the blackouts.
At first, they were infrequent — brushed off as fatigue, blood pressure, or the natural price of growing a Saiyan inside a human body. But patterns have a way of revealing themselves to minds trained to spot them, and Bulma Briefs was nothing if not scientific in her paranoia. By the third collapse, she had already begun cataloging symptoms and recalibrating medbots.
The Capsule Corp health monitors confirmed what she already suspected: her vitals were dropping in bursts, then rebounding unnaturally fast, as though something inside her was feeding off her life force and giving nothing back. Her own biometric rhythms were being overwritten.
This wasn't pregnancy.
This was an energy hijacking.
Bulma's early research into human-Saiyan DNA compatibility, made with Vegeta's blood and herself's, became a matter of survival — led her father to a singular conclusion. A condition so unprecedented, it required a brand-new classification.
Parasitic Saiyan Fetal Dominance.
PSFD, for the panicked lab notes.
"The fetus isn't just growing — it's actively consuming the mother's vital energy, or ki, to build itself," Dr. Briefs had explained, not looking up from the flickering 3D render of the infant's metabolic output. "I theorize this wouldn't be a problem between two Saiyans. Their energy systems are naturally equipped to recycle and reinforce one another. But Bulma…"
Yes. But Bulma. The soft, non-combatant human with a Ki signature so negligible it couldn't set off a scouter if she screamed.
Her words, not his. Probably muttered into a pillow between contractions.
The diagnosis reframed everything. Her constant fatigue. The sudden inability to focus. The strange electrical sensations in her fingertips when she touched metal. The fetus — his child — was developing like a pure-blooded Saiyan, fueled by a metabolism not designed for compromise. And she was paying the price in energy she did not have.
So Vegeta was right.
Royal blood was too strong. The mother had to be strong.
Months ago, it had sounded like a boast — a Saiyan's warped compliment, maybe even a twisted form of concern. But now… now it felt more like a warning. A curse wrapped in pride.
"Damn you, Vegeta. Pains me to admit you were right." She thought, "But I'm glad you're not here to say 'told you so."
So that was the reason she'd ended up in this situation.
"Come on, dear, you still have three pancakes to go. And the ice cream," said Bikini, with her usual melodic cheer — as if diabetic coma by breakfast was a bonding activity.
This had been her father's idea. If the fetus was draining her dry, then the only logical solution was to overcompensate. Massively.
A 10,000-calorie daily intake had been prescribed, charted, and cheerfully cooked. Unfortunately, Bulma's stomach was not a bottomless void like a Saiyan's. The more they fed her, the more nauseous she felt. And when the baby kicked — which was often, violently, and with what felt like intent — her organs rearranged themselves like unhappy tenants forced into a one-bedroom flat.
She was perpetually exhausted. Eight months pregnant, bruised from daily vitamin injections, half-dreaming between hibernation-level sleep cycles, and walking around with a portable monitor attached to her wrist that beeped every time her ki dropped below what Dr. Briefs had designated "the baseline for human survival."
He wasn't reading the paper that morning. He was studying her vitals. Again. Not worried — he never looked worried — but focused. Tapping through data streams like a man finalizing a checklist.
He wasn't preparing to welcome a grandchild anymore.
He was building a plan to keep his daughter alive.
Because — as she'd finally accepted — this wasn't just a high-risk pregnancy.
This was potentially mortal for the mother.
"We're inducing your labor, honey," he said without ceremony.
"Is it safe?"
The words came out softer than intended.
"I mean… for the baby?"
Her father didn't look up. Still scrolling through her vitals like they were numbers on a quarterly report.
"It's better for your safety. We've already been over this. The doctors and I recommended thirty weeks—"
"I know."
"—you negotiated thirty-five. You can't wait anymore, Bulma. Your body's at its limit. I don't think you'll be able to keep up caloric intake with a full-term fetus siphoning your ki."
Clinical. Inevitable. Correct.
The worst kind of argument—unbeatable. And wearing her father's voice.
But she still tried.
"I think I can do thirty-seven."
He gave her that look—equal parts affection and exasperation.
"Your body says otherwise."
"Please."
She deployed the look. The one he'd never resisted, not once in thirty-plus years. Disappointed child. Chocolate replaced with oatmeal. Big eyes, manufactured innocence. She wasn't above using it.
Dr. Briefs sighed—the sigh of a man who'd built space capsules, talking dogs, and gravity chambers, but still didn't stand a chance against his daughter.
"One week."
A pause.
"And you'll be in a wheelchair. With an IV. That's final."
Bulma smirked, just a little.
Not a victory worth gloating over, but it was something. It meant she wasn't entirely helpless. Not yet.
He turned to go, then hesitated in the doorway.
"You know, Pumpkin…"
His tone had shifted. Softer.
"I understand your concern for the baby. But I think you're waiting for something more. Or maybe… someone who can't be here."
And then he was gone.
Bulma didn't respond. Didn't move.
But inside, her thoughts crackled like static.
When did he get telepathic powers?
It wasn't fair. How he could just say things like that—drop them like data points—then walk away. Like he hadn't just yanked the curtain back on a thought she hadn't even dared name.
Was she waiting?
Or just stalling?
And if he did come—what then?
The monitor on her wrist let out a warning beep. A soft chime of betrayal.
She was dipping again.
Bulma closed her eyes and breathed—slow, shallow, robotic.
In. Out. Don't think. Don't feel. Thinking was energy. Feeling was worse.
Energy was a luxury.
She reached for the only thing they still allowed her—her compact recording device. No tablet, no tools, no holograms. Just this.
Her father had banned her from working in bed. Said she was burning herself out. That research counted as stress.
Her compromise was audio logs. Casual, harmless. Harmless lies.
"You're a little energy vampire, aren't ya?" she muttered, pressing her thumb to her belly.
It kicked in response. Of course it did.
"We're making a message for your dad. What should we say?"
CLICK.
"Recording one," she began, tone dry, "for the stubborn father of this baby, who apparently has better things to do than witness the miracle of his own offspring being born. When you hear this, I might already be dead—"
Ugh.
So dramatic, Briefs.
DELETE.
CLICK.
"Listen well, you asshole," she tried again, voice sharp, cracking. "I gave you all the time in the world to reconsider. I gave you space. I let you disappear because I thought—maybe—maybe that's what you needed."
A breath.
"But the baby needs you. Whether you give a damn or not."
"I need you."
A beat.
"Fuck. No. You know what?"
Her breath hitched.
"I hate you. I'll hate you forever for leaving me here. For making me feel this goddamn lonely. For making me…"
She stopped.
Not because she was finished.
But because the words—the real ones—were too stupid, too soft.
What?
You want to hold his hand? Feel his arms around you? Hear something other than a grunt?
She laughed. Or tried to. It came out thin. Almost weightless.
And then, all at once, so was she.
Her limbs went light. Her chest hollowed.
The weight in her body vanished in a second.
Beep.
That sound again, sharper now. Urgent. Multiplying.
Voices. Footsteps. Running.
Then—
Black.
What happened after that moment, Bulma only knew from evidence. And from the people who were there.
She had been moved—no, placed—into a machine her father had designed specifically for this possibility. An advanced life-support capsule built to regulate her vitals while counterbalancing the energy drain from the fetus. It fed her intravenously, rebalanced her ki every hour, and maintained what little stability her body could manage.
Dr. Briefs had never said it, but she knew.
He'd built that thing because he had always assumed this pregnancy might kill her.
She stayed in it for ten days.
Ten days where she didn't speak, didn't think, didn't dream.
Just floated in a conservation loop like a failing battery being trickle-charged.
Only when her ki stabilized—barely peaking above the surgical threshold—did her father make the call.
Natural labor had been impossible.
Her energy reserves too volatile, her body too compromised.
So the best Capsule Corp could buy—and build—was brought to bear.
The delivery had been surgical, clinical, and brutal in its precision.
The doctor had been human. The tools had not.
It had worked.
The baby had been born alive. Healthy.
Vegeta's son.
Bulma, meanwhile, had remained in low-power mode.
Her body operating on autopilot. Her mind somewhere far behind her.
According to Bikini—and a few corroborating camera angles from Capsule Corp's residential security system—Vegeta had arrived exactly two days after the baby was born.
Bulma didn't remember it, of course. She'd still been unconscious, hooked up to enough monitors to make her look like a science experiment gone wrong.
The footage showed his ship landing on the far edge of the compound, dust kicking up like it was trying to cover for him. He stepped out looking like he'd been through hell. Dirt and scorch marks streaked across his body like war paint. His shirt was ripped, stained. Armor gone. A man who'd fought something that nearly killed him—or maybe he'd been hoping it would.
He didn't go straight to the medical wing. Of course not. He either had no idea the baby had come early—or didn't care.
He walked into the house like he didn't even know where he was, like the quiet was too loud.
He checked the kitchen first. Opened the fridge and just stood there, looking confused by leftovers, as if expecting one to attack. Or maybe he was waiting for someone—anyone—to explain what had happened while he'd been off chasing ghosts and power.
There was no sound on the recording, but his eyes looked… not wild.
Wary.
He grabbed something—looked like cold rice or maybe an old cutlet—and started eating it like it owed him a debt. That was when Bikini walked in.
"Oh, stars! Young Vegeta, you're finally back from your trip! Right on time to see the baby!"
That was Bikini's exact quote. Bulma knew because she'd said it six times after Bulma woke up.
As for what happened next? That part was harder to trust. The cameras couldn't read tone, and Bikini couldn't read a room. Not if it was painted in neon letters that said TRAUMA, DO NOT ENTER.
"He looked so handsome and manly," Bikini had sighed, dreamily. "Like a rugged prince in exile!"
Useless.
The footage showed him staring at her with a blank face, still chewing like nothing she said had landed. There was no visible reaction. No sudden change. Not even a twitch.
Just… staring.
The next witness was the nurse assigned to monitor her vitals.
She'd been in the room when Vegeta showed up—same torn clothes, same expressionless scowl. Apparently, the man didn't believe in costume changes. Or facial ones.
She hadn't needed an introduction. Everyone at Capsule Corp knew who he was.
And if they didn't, his energy made the point for him.
According to her account, she'd taken one look at him and bolted. Not literally—but fast enough to clip the edge of the doorframe on her way out.
"It was the way he looked at me," she'd whispered later, clutching her coffee cup like a talisman. "There was this… killer glint in his eyes. It gave me the shivers."
I hear you, sister, Bulma had thought.
She knew that look too.
The one that said back off, or I'll turn your atoms into abstract art.
The footage from the room backed the story. And this one—mercifully—had audio.
He didn't do much. Just stood there in front of the life-support capsule like he was judging a failed prototype. Clenched fists. Stiff shoulders. Mouth twisted in something between a frown and a snarl.
Then he muttered it.
Tch. Weak woman.
And walked away.
That was it. That was all.
—
Several days later, Bulma woke up feeling like she'd been dunked in bleach, spun through ten wash cycles, and left to dry on a wire rack.
Everything hurt—but not sharply. More like the lingering buzz of a battery drained too low.
Her vitals were back in the green. She could tell from the monitors. And from the fact that she could think in full sentences again.
She was in a regular hospital bed now, surrounded by beeping machines and the sterile scent of recycled air. That meant she'd been cleared from the capsule.
That meant… something had happened.
"Oh, stars! Sweetie! I'm so glad you're awake!"
Her mother's voice hit first. Bikini clutched her hand like she was afraid Bulma might disappear again. Or explode. Possibly both.
"I'll tell your dad!"
She vanished in a flash of perfume and pastel panic.
Bulma blinked against the light, trying to make sense of the room. Clean linens. Old flowers in the corner.
The same damn room she remembered from before.
The one she'd been in when—
Her breath hitched. She looked down.
Her belly was smaller. So much smaller.
Empty.
And she didn't feel him.
Where are you?
Then the door opened. And in walked her father, holding something so impossibly tiny it didn't feel real at first.
He looked relieved. And—somehow—older.
"Is that…?" Her voice was barely functional. But her eyes were already welling.
Dr. Briefs smiled the way only men who've seen too much and held it all together for everyone else know how to smile.
"That's your son, pumpkin."
A son.
She hadn't dared think it until now.
Her son.
Tears burned down her cheeks as she held out her arms. The moment he was in them, her body remembered him. Her heartbeat shifted. Her bones realigned. Like her body finally knew it wasn't alone anymore.
The baby opened his eyes—just a sliver. Blue.
Her blue.
"He's got your eyes," said her father, proud and soft.
But Bulma stared a little longer, searching past the color. There was something in the shape. The intensity. Like he was already judging the world.
Those weren't her eyes.
"No," she said quietly. "These eyes aren't mine, Dad. They're his daddy's. Right, baby?"
The baby blinked once, then shut his eyes again, like the conversation bored him.
Figures, Bulma thought. Just like his father.
Bulma found out about Vegeta's visit not long after waking up.
Naturally, the information came via Bikini Briefs—who delivered it like she was narrating a gothic romance.
"A stormy night," her mother gasped, fluffing her sleeves. "The kitchen all dark and silent, and then he arrived—like a ghost! A tragic, brooding prince with a cape!" She clasped her hands like she might faint from the drama.
Bulma blinked. "Vegeta doesn't wear a cape."
"He did that night," Bikini whispered, as if that explained everything. "The nurse said he looked like a tormented warlord. So intense she fainted. Or nearly did."
Which—okay—piqued Bulma's curiosity enough to override medical exhaustion and dig through Capsule Corp's internal surveillance system. She was still half in a hospital bed, a baby latched onto her breast, one hand on her tablet and the other cradling the child.
Dr. Briefs walked in right as she queued up the footage.
"Working already?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Bulma didn't even look up. "Nope. Just busting fairy tales. Mom's out here writing fanfiction, and the night nurse practically described an undead ice zombie with an accent. I'm calling BS—with timestamps."
She'd already reviewed the kitchen footage—the one where Vegeta barely stood there before disappearing. Now she had the hospital room video ready to go.
"Got it."
She pressed play.
The feed showed Vegeta stepping into the room. The nurse bolted like she'd seen a bear. Vegeta didn't move much. Just stood there—fists clenched, arms stiff at his sides. Silent.
And then—
"Tch. Weak woman."
That was it.
He turned and left.
Bulma stared at the screen. Her dad did too, which might've been the only reason she didn't cry. Not here. Not now.
She tightened her arms around the baby instead. Like she could absorb his strength by holding him.
That comment. Weak woman. That was so… low.
So him.
Her brain was already preparing the excuses he'd never give her—trauma, grief, emotional constipation—but that didn't make it easier.
Her thoughts were interrupted by her father's calm voice.
"Oh. That must've been the first time he came to see you."
She blinked. "The first time?"
"Yeah," he said, as casually as if recounting the weather. "That video you're watching is from the day he came back to Earth, I think. Your mom said he didn't even finish eating. Didn't shower. Just showed up at your door. Scared the pants off the staff. Saw you, and a few moments later, he disappeared into the gravity chamber and trashed it. Cracked the wall. Blew out all the drones."
Bulma was already pulling up the chamber footage as he spoke. Sure enough: wreckage. Fury. Controlled devastation with Vegeta at its core. She'd seen him angry before, of course—she'd met him on Namek, after all. But this?
"After that, he stayed in his room. No sight of him outside. No footage in his room, of course," Dr. Briefs added. "You shut those down a while ago, right?"
She nodded. She'd done it after realizing she was checking them too often. Like she could find answers in silent images of a man who never talked.
"Anyway," her father continued, "he didn't talk to anyone. Didn't ask about the baby. But your mom kept leaving trays outside, and some of them were gone, so I assume he ate."
Bulma didn't respond. She was still watching the gravity room footage—watching him implode the way he always did. Quiet. Violent. Alone.
"The day we brought you back to this room," Dr. Briefs said, "I stood outside his door and told him the baby was healthy. That you were recovering. That we were sure you'd wake up soon. He didn't say anything."
"Figures," she muttered.
"That night, I came in to check your IV." He gestured at the side of her bed. "And there he was. Right there. Standing like a statue with his arms crossed. Didn't move. Didn't speak."
She glanced at the spot.
"And?"
"And he stayed there all night, according to the nurses. No one dared ask him to leave."
Bulma didn't say anything. She just looked at her son again—those not-quite-her eyes closed in sleep, a perfect copy of someone who would never admit he cared.
But he did.
Just not out loud.
Not yet.
"Oh, he's asleep," whispered Dr. Briefs. "Let me put him in his crib. You need to rest."
He took the baby carefully and placed him in the crib next to her bed.
As he disappeared through the door, Bulma pulled up the last piece of footage—the one her father had mentioned.
There he was. Just like Dr. Briefs had said. Standing. Stoic like a sentinel. Arms crossed to his chest.
"That's it? No 'tch, weak woman'?" she muttered, doing a poor impersonation.
She fast-forwarded through the footage. At least a couple of hours passed like that. Until—something changed.
He leaned closer.
She paused. Rewound. Watched again.
He removed a glove. His bare hand reached toward hers. Touched it.
She felt something sink in her stomach. Wished she could emulate the sensation of his skin on hers.
And then—a glow. Subtle. Like a Ki attack, but gentler. Like it passed through her and not over her. Ran through her body like a current.
Like him.
He was giving her some of his Ki energy. She didn't have to check, but she was sure that's when her vitals had gone back to normal.
And then—he left. Like nothing had happened.
There it is, she thought.
I came all this way looking for evidence to prove he actually cared a little. But this?
Her mind pulled her back—to the start of it all. The early chaos. The day she wondered if there was even a speck of conscience in him. A flicker of good.
The warmth in her chest spread quickly to her face. Her eyes stung.
Those tears weren't only for her. She was glad. So glad for her son.
"Look, baby," she whispered, "Daddy's a good person… even though he tries to hide it."
She reached for the drawer next to her, looking for her voice recorder.
Nothing.
"Must've dropped it when I passed out…"
Vegeta's Room – Same Time
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows braced against his knees, his spine curled inward like a bowstring pulled tight—aimless, without a target.
The room was dark. Not for atmosphere, just because he hadn't bothered to turn on the lights.
In his hand, the small recording device pulsed with a faint red glow. Alien tech. Her tech.
He couldn't remember picking it up. Maybe it had been instinct. Maybe he'd just wanted something to crush.
But he hadn't crushed it.
Hadn't even let it go.
His thumb hovered over the button.
Click.
Her voice crackled to life. No slurring. No clinical detachment. No cold scientific distance.
Just fury.
"Listen well, you asshole—"
He blinked.
"I gave you all the time in the world to reconsider. I gave you space. I let you disappear because I thought—maybe—that's what you needed."
Her anger wasn't the kind that exploded.
It was worse.
It was the kind born from loss.
He didn't move.
Not when her voice cracked.
Not when it trembled.
"But the baby needs you. Whether you give a damn or not."
"I need you."
He exhaled, barely.
"Fuck. No. You know what?"
A pause. Her breath hitched.
"I hate you. I'll hate you forever for leaving me here. For making me feel this goddamn lonely. For making me…"
Silence.
Then the softest laugh.
Thin. Strained. Broken.
Beep. Beep.
A new sound cut in—alarms, distant voices, shouting, footsteps.
"Vitals are crashing—get the capsule prepped—"
A woman's voice, close by: "What's this?"
Another voice: "Turn it off. Leave it there."
Click.
He sat frozen, staring at nothing.
The silence afterward wasn't quiet at all. It rang in his ears like a verdict.
Tch.
He looked down at the recorder. His thumb moved again.
Click.
Once more.
"Listen well, you asshole—"
He let it play.
This time, he didn't flinch.
He absorbed it. Let her hate settle in him like a second spine.
Didn't try to deny it.
Didn't try to stop it.
He just stayed there, still hunched forward, her voice echoing off the walls of a room that never quite felt like his.
Writer's Notes:
Alright, real talk—I have to unpack this chapter a bit. It was a beast to write. Juggling Bulma literally on the edge of death, Vegeta showing up late (ugh, classic), Trunk's birth, sneaking in some raw emotion without going full soap opera... yeah. Not easy. I wanted to keep the tone light-ish—because hey, we're not here for a telenovela meltdown, right?
You might be thinking, "Wait, if you wanted to avoid drama, why toss in such a dramatic bombshell?" Fair question. Here's my answer: I wrote this with one moment in mind—Vegeta in Dragon Ball Super refusing to leave Bulma's side when Bulla's about to be born. "I'm not leaving. The baby will be born any minute. I want to be with her." Those lines? They haunt me. It felt like an echo of something he'd lost the first time around. So yeah, poor Trunks. Bulla's gonna get the dad he never had. But to get Vegeta from this guy—the one who didn't lift a finger during the explosion that nearly killed Bulma and their baby—to that guy? Whew. Buckle up. The roller coaster is just starting.
Also, hope you noticed—this chapter experiments a bit. We get a peek at Vegeta's actual emotions. Not the tough-guy front, but something raw. Because this episode? It's also about how people see him. To someone like Bikini, he's a walking thirst trap. To regular folks (like that poor nurse), he's terrifying. Bulma's got her blinders on, as usual. And Dr. Briefs? He might be the only one seeing Vegeta clearly.
I don't know yet if I'll keep showing scenes like this—Vegeta's emotional landscape is hard to navigate without giving away too much of the plot. But if that final scene hit you in the feels (or made you yell at your screen), leave me a review and let me know. I live for your reactions.