Chapter Ten- Glitches in the Saiyan Code
Bulma had been discharged two weeks after the whole "giving birth to a Saiyan nearly killed me" event. A coma, a near-death experience, and a full reset of her pain threshold later, she was back at Capsule Corp—alive, stitched together by science, and officially someone's mother.
She hadn't spoken to Vegeta since. Barely seen him, really. Once in the hallway when she was limping back from the medbay and he passed by like she was an inconvenient hallway decoration. No eye contact. No "how's the baby," no "glad you didn't die." Classic.
She'd even stopped searching for camera footage—the kind that showed him pausing too long at her door, or brushing his fingers over the crib when no one was watching. Because honestly? That was getting pathetic. And watching it felt like scraping the same bruise over and over.
Besides, those moments didn't repeat. Not even close.
So she focused on what did exist: a perfectly healthy, constantly-hungry, deceptively-adorable infant. A little tyrant in the making, probably. Saiyan genes were strong like that.
And of course, because the universe had a sense of humor, there she was again—glued to her lab computer, running on caffeine and sarcasm, trying to fix the gravity chamber. Again.
The baby cooed in the cradle beside her. She typed without looking up.
Then he walked in.
Vegeta. Arms crossed like he was holding back a galaxy. That permanent scowl, still perfectly intact.
"Already working?" he said, voice like dry gravel. "Aren't you pushing too hard for Employee of the Year?"
Bulma didn't flinch. Just typed.
"Aren't you pushing too little for Father of the Year?"
Their eyes met. Briefly. Hers narrowed. His didn't even blink.
Look at you, she thought. So proud, so casual. Pretending you don't have a heart. Must be exhausting.
He didn't answer. Not right away.
"Your father says I can't use the gravity machine yet."
She snorted. "I'm working on it. Heard you had a Drama Prince moment about it. What was that all about?"
Vegeta grunted. Which, to be clear, was not a denial.
Bulma kept typing. "Sorry I didn't fix it sooner. I was busy." She nodded toward the cradle. "Just... you know. Dying while pushing your alien offspring into the world."
"The androids are coming," he said. "I must become—"
"—A Super Saiyan. Yeah, I've got the greatest hits memorized." She finally turned toward him. "You're real consistent about your self-imposed destiny. Just hope you don't end up regretting what you're bulldozing past."
The baby cooed again, stretching like a cat. She smiled, involuntarily. Beautiful little thing.
Vegeta didn't look.
"I don't—"
"Save it." She waved a hand. "You don't care. Got it. Drill received and archived."
She hit the final key and leaned back. "Gravity room's ready. Go knock yourself out. Literally, if you'd like."
He turned to leave.
Bulma didn't know why she said it. Maybe she wanted him to flinch. Maybe she just wanted something.
"Aren't you going to ask what his name is?"
He stopped. Didn't turn around. Of course he didn't.
"It's Trunks," she said. Calm, but not cold.
Silence. Then, from the door:
"That's a fitting name. For the future king of your mud planet."
She blinked.
"Tch."
Did… did that just come out of my mouth? The sound echoed in the sudden silence of the lab, foreign and utterly Vegeta.
God. That was his thing.
Seriously, Bulma. Tch? Her brain felt like it had momentarily cross-wired with a Saiyan battle computer. What next? Flexing her nonexistent tail?
She rolled her eyes at herself and went back to work. But the smile stayed, just a little longer than it should have.
Moments later, the phone rang.
Bulma didn't think much of it at first—probably another Capsule Corp engineer trying to "confirm the specs she'd already emailed twice." But then she saw the name flash on the screen.
Yamcha.
Well. There was a blast from the pre-apocalypse past.
She stared at it for a second. It had been ages since she'd heard from him. Long enough for the anger to go stale. Long enough for the resentment to shrivel up and fall off like a scab you stopped picking at. Honestly, after nearly dying in childbirth and being ghosted by the father of her kid, old heartbreaks didn't sting as much.
Maybe that was the real near-death perk: emotional clarity with a side of "who even cares anymore."
She answered.
"Hello?"
"B—Bulma?" His voice cracked like an old record. "I didn't think you'd pick up!"
"Well," she said, casually spinning a pen between her fingers, "it has been a while."
"Y-yeah… a long time. Listen, I'm near Capsule Corp. Do you think we could… meet up? Catch up?"
Bulma glanced at the cradle beside her. Trunks was waging war with his own feet—kicking the air like an Earth's Mightiest Hero in training. He giggled between attacks.
So cute it's criminal, she thought.
She watched him for a beat, then brought the phone back to her ear.
"Yeah," she said, eyes on her son, voice a little cooler now. "There are definitely things we need to catch up on."
She hung up.
No goodbye. Just a click.
Then she leaned back and muttered to herself, "This should be fun."
She met Yamcha in West City, outside one of those cafés that tried too hard to look vintage. Faux-rusted steel, exposed brick, overpriced espresso. Vinyl spinning over Bluetooth. The kind of place where every table had a succulent in a jar and oat milk cost extra.
But it wasn't Capsule Corp.
That was the point.
She needed space. Air. Something that didn't smell like baby wipes, fried circuits, or Vegeta's damn gravity chamber.
Her parents had practically shoved her out the door.
"We've got him!" her mom chirped, already nuzzling Trunks like she'd birthed him herself. "Go do something fun. Or dangerous. Or both!"
Her dad slipped her a capsule like a bribe. "New hover scooter. Take your time. He likes classical music, by the way. Puts him right out."
Of course he did. The Briefs charm. Trunks could melt titanium with that smile. That part, she was proud to say, came from her. The scowl? Pure Vegeta.
She spotted Yamcha first—already seated, fidgeting with the edge of his mug like it might spill secrets. He looked... better. Clean-cut. Hair trimmed the way she used to like it, back when they thought dating was the hard part and no one had ever vaporized a planet.
When he stood and grinned at her, it was like time bent. Like they were twenty again, and the universe hadn't caved in yet.
"Bulma. Holy crap. It's true? You had a baby?"
She slid into the seat across from him and crossed her legs.
"Real one. Two eyes, ten fingers. Came with a receipt and everything."
He blinked. "I—yeah, I just didn't believe it. You know how people talk. There were rumors. Some of them were... wild."
She cocked a brow. "Let me guess. Capsule Corp grew a clone? Or I got knocked up by a vengeful android with a Namekian upgrade?"
Yamcha laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "One of those might've come up. There was also something about a Saiyan war heir and planetary conquest."
She deadpanned. "They left out the one where I seduce aliens for rare DNA samples."
His grin widened. "Okay, that one I believed. Sounded too on-brand."
"You're not wrong."
They laughed. Briefly. The silence that followed pressed in like gravity.
Yamcha glanced down, then back at her. "I didn't know how to ask. After Namek... you looked wrecked. Then you vanished. And now there's a kid."
She looked past him toward the skyline. Capsule Corp shimmered in the distance—too close, as always.
"Yeah," she said. "Life moves fast when you're busy rethinking everything."
He held onto that line like it had hidden code. Then, awkwardly:
"So... you got married?"
Not a question. A probe. Fishing for something he probably didn't want to reel in.
Bulma smirked. "Please. You know I don't do marriage."
He nodded. Yeah. He knew. Fifteen years of breakups and almosts. He'd asked. She'd laughed. Called rings shackles with gemstones. Said she was too much woman for a contract.
"You didn't do kids either."
That landed heavier than it should've.
She leaned back, arms crossed. "You want to know who the father is."
He didn't deny it. Just braced, like impact was inevitable.
"Is it a secret?"
"No. Just... complicated."
Yamcha wrapped both hands around his mug like it might help him stay warm. Or steady.
"I mean... people talked. About Vegeta. You brought him into your house like it was no big deal. Guy tried to blow up Earth six months before."
She tilted her head. "And you thought I'd lost it."
"I thought you were reckless. And maybe... hypnotized." His voice softened. "But then again, you've always had a type."
She didn't answer. Just watched him. Waited.
He kept going. "I saw him. In your gravity room. Blowing himself up. You patching him back together like he was one of your machines. I remember thinking, 'No way she'd fall for that.' But..."
His thumb traced the edge of the mug.
"I didn't think it would work. Or maybe I hoped it wouldn't."
Her smile had no humor. "Well, 'work' might be generous."
Silence. Again.
Then:
"Is it his?"
No hesitation. No flinch.
"Yes."
He nodded. Like he already knew but needed the confirmation anyway.
"You still patching him up?"
Bulma huffed. "No. He doesn't break in front of me anymore. Or maybe he just hides the pieces better."
That was the truest thing she'd said all day.
In the end, Yamcha drove her back to Capsule Corp.
She had a car in a capsule—obviously—but she didn't feel like driving, and Yamcha never quite figured out how to say no to her. Not back then. Not now. Maybe not ever. Some laws of the universe just didn't change: gravity, entropy, and Vegeta's permanent scowl.
He parked just outside the main dome, still reeling like someone had thrown his brain into the Hyperbolic Time Chamber without warning. Bulma, meanwhile, was in the passenger seat applying lip balm, calm as a cat nap in a sunbeam.
"You're coming in," she said, like she was asking if he wanted coffee.
"I—what? No, I don't think—"
"You have to see him."
"That's probably not a good idea."
"Oh, please. You already know the gossip. Might as well meet the evidence."
He groaned, the sound of a man drafted into emotional warfare—but followed her inside anyway. Just like old times.
Dr. Briefs glanced up from something vaguely explosive that was wearing a leash. "Well, look who wandered back from the dead."
"Oh, Yamcha!" Bikini chirped from the hallway, halfway through rearranging a bowl of fruit for reasons known only to her. "Did you come to see the baby?"
She said that to everyone these days. The plumber. The UPS guy. That poor tech from East City who just came to check the solar panels.
"He's so gorgeous, isn't he?" she added dreamily, despite the fact that the baby wasn't even present.
"Uh… sure," Yamcha blinked.
"Come on," Bulma said, already walking. "The nursery's this way."
Trunks was lounging in a designer bassinet that probably cost more than the average house. He was silent, alert, and glaring at the ceiling like he was calculating how to disassemble the solar system.
Yamcha crept closer like the baby might detonate. No tail. No spikes. No glowing bits. Just a suspicious amount of hair and a forehead capable of cracking bedrock.
He picked Trunks up like he was handling radioactive tech—cautious, unsure, but weirdly tender. The baby blinked.
Then screamed.
Loud. Sharp. Personally offended.
"Yep," Bulma muttered, arms crossed. "Definitely Vegeta's kid."
Yamcha winced, rocking the baby. "He's got strong lungs. That's… good, right?"
Trunks screamed louder. Little limbs flailed like he was about to fire a Ki blast straight to the core of the Earth.
And right on cue—
"What is that racket?"
His voice sliced through the air before he even entered. Vegeta.
He appeared in the doorway like an unscheduled emergency: boots planted, gloves flexing, scowl already at half-mast. He was clearly on his way to his room—which, not coincidentally, required walking past the nursery. Pure coincidence, she'd claimed. Realistically? She'd placed the baby there like a chess piece. Trip over him if you dare.
His gaze landed on Yamcha.
And froze.
Yamcha. Holding Trunks.
Bulma saw it—the shift beneath the scowl. Not overt. Just a twitch of the jaw, a flare in the eyes, a sudden stillness like a pressure drop before a storm.
"What is he doing with the child?"
The words were low and laced with warning. Possessive. He hadn't raised his voice, but the walls leaned in anyway.
Bulma moved closer to Yamcha and Trunks—instinctively. Not protectively. Positionally. Strategically.
"He was just holding him," she said lightly. "It's not a duel."
Vegeta didn't respond. His eyes stayed locked on Yamcha, burning a hole clean through.
Yamcha didn't flinch. He bounced Trunks awkwardly, still trying to soothe him. But then his voice edged just a little.
"Well, someone has to."
And then, sharper:
"You've been pretending he doesn't exist. Maybe don't act like you get a say now."
The room stiffened.
Vegeta didn't lunge. Didn't blast. But his silence snapped tight. The look in his eyes was the kind that made stars collapse.
"The Saiyan infant does not require coddling. Especially not by weaklings."
The insult hit with expected venom—but there was something under it. Not just contempt. Something raw.
Yamcha adjusted his grip, didn't back down.
"Funny. Still stronger than a deadbeat."
That's when Bulma stepped in. Smooth. Sharp.
"Well, look at the time," she said, voice like sugar-laced cyanide. "Yamcha, sweetie, go home. Thanks for coming, really."
He hesitated—one last glance at Vegeta, who didn't blink—then handed Trunks back, careful as if he were made of glass and live wires.
"See you around, Bulma."
He left.
Vegeta didn't follow. Didn't speak. His eyes tracked her now—her, and the baby. And Bulma saw it, just for a second: that flicker of something trapped behind his own anatomy.
"The child is… fragile," he muttered eventually. Like the words physically resisted leaving his throat.
He didn't ask if Trunks was alright. Didn't get closer. Just stood there, shoulders rigid, seething silently.
"See that he is prepared. Weakness is a liability."
And with that, he turned and disappeared down the hall like a thundercloud with somewhere better to be.
Bulma exhaled slowly, rocking Trunks. He'd finally quieted.
She glanced toward the hallway. Smirked.
"Jealous," she muttered, not unkindly.
"He just doesn't have the programming to deal with that."
She looked down at her son, who blinked up at her with that same smug little expression she was starting to recognize.
Her lips twitched.
"Don't worry, sweetheart. Daddy's just having a … glitch."