debbiechan fanfiction

Always A First Time

by debbiechan

Disclaimer: I can make no claim to owning DBZ, yet I have a masochistic compulsion to tell this damn story.



A/N: I’m still hot on this story, but I may take off a couple weeks to write a Dbz one-shot. I need to look over the anime to get my facts straight for the upcoming part of this story. Thanks for all the reviews, and never fear, dear readers, I’m going to finish this one! As always, LisaB is my thorough and dependable beta.

Chapter Twenty-three: Random Data

“Forget it. I have no interest in them.”--Vegeta about Bulma and her baby, episode 132

Bulma Briefs actually trusts me.

Dr. Wolfgang Schroedinger pecked seven numbers into the control panel beside the front door. He was not excited (much) over the laborious task of ploughing through data on the neuro-communicator, but ever since Bulma had called him from her ambulance stretcher with the family compound security code, he had been looking forward to snooping around the empty house.

He didn’t expect to find anything extraordinarily useful--the labs, of course, would still be locked. One never knew, however, what sort of information was lying about, and Wolfgang’s scientific genius excelled at excogitating sense out of randomness.

The door creaked open on old-fashioned hinges. What pitiful security! I must talk to her about upgrading the system. She thinks she can rely on those martial artist men to protect her.

Wolfgang moved through the rooms searching for nothing in particular. The Briefs kept a tidy home. A mop bot was crawling across a window in the living room like a noiseless snail. Another one of those little helmets with brush feet was polishing a corner of the hallway floor. Family portraits on the walls, those ubiquitous Capsule Corporation tropical plants in large ceramic pots, some romance novels on an end table … did those books belong to Bulma?

Bulma Briefs needs me.

Everyone was at the hospital, even Dr Briefs who had finally wandered out of his lab. Wolfgang didn’t understand what all the panic was about and why everyone had to linger near Bulma at this time. It’s not like they could do anything to help. When Bulma herself had told him that “the baby is squishing the placenta and I’m going to have a rough time of it,” Wolfgang had done a quick internet search on placental abruption and concluded that Bulma and baby were going to be just fine.

If anyone could birth an alien baby, it was Bulma Briefs. She had faced worse perils on Earth and even in outer space! Brave woman! Intrepid scientist!

It was difficult to not be at least a little infatuated with her--she was the only person in the world who understood the importance of killing Dr. Gero. Not to mention that she was easy on the eyes, even puffed up and pregnant. And never mind Bulma’s mammaries, how rare is a sensible woman?

Of course her involvement with Mr. Vegeta hadn’t been too sensible, but Wolfgang couldn’t fault her there. From the way Miaka was always carrying on about that little muscular extraterrestrial, Mr. Vegeta was apparently sexually irresistible to women.

Top floor, first door. Bulma’s bedroom was surprisingly small and--not surprisingly--a total mess. There were clothes, books, magazines scattered everywhere. The neuro-communicator was going ping ping ping on a small table next to the rocking chair. Wolfgang walked to pick it up and noticed the large bloody stain on the seat. Brave girl, he thought absently, and turned his attention to the data on the pinging device. He deduced within seconds that it was nothing more than some flimsy government spy bot being scanned.

There were other, more important things, to observe in the room.

He inspected all the make-up on the dresser. He opened the drawers. Scarves, gloves, frilly things, nothing of importance. There was a whole drawer of men’s t-shirts, sweatpants, and shorts. Oh? So it had not been a one-time affair?

The bed seemed too tiny for an heiress until Wolfgang fiddled with the controls on the bedpost and discovered that the mattress could be adjusted in width, firmness, elevation from the floor, and could be zipped into a slot in the wall. Obviously a Briefs custom bed. Wolfgang then sat on the white linen sheets and noticed the doors to the balcony were wide open.

A strong breeze filled the transparent curtains over the beveled glass doors. A scent of something burning--a barbeque on the patio? Then the wind shifted, and Wolfgang wasn’t sure. He was about to get up and walk outside to look for a party when the neuro-communicator in his hand went ding!

A quick scan of the files showed that the neuro-com had already landed on this bot several times before. Why isn’t Bulma deleting these connections? Oh--any one of these spy-bots could be a baseline prototype that Gero hasn’t fitted with cybernetic capacity yet. Kami, Bulma is being thorough. She must have been reading data all day instead of romance novels.

“Where the hell is everyone?” spoke a deep male voice.

Wolfgang dropped the neuro-communicator. It fell on the bed, slid off the fitted linen sheet, and thudded on the carpet.

Vegeta was standing at the bedroom threshold wearing an unbelted bathrobe. He turned his gaze to the strange object on the floor. It was still making the pinging noise.

Wolfgang--careful not to move too quickly and look as if he were going for a weapon--picked up the neuro-communicator and shut it off. Then he put it aside on the bed as if it were a thing of no importance. He feared that Vegeta would take it.

“Now, Mr. Vegeta, there is no reason to be alarmed, but everyone--the Briefs--they’re at the hospital.” Wolfgang took a deep breath. Usually he was not an easily startled person, but he knew exactly what this alien was capable of. This was a fellow who trained under 400 times the Earth’s gravitational pressure.

“What happened?” Vegeta’s voice did not sound alarmed at all. As Wolfgang stared, a faint aura seemed to glow around the alien, and the long, wet black hair on his shoulders began to rise. The tendrils dried and were instantly poised in the pointy, gravity-defying style Mr. Vegeta had sported when last Wolfgang had seen him.

“Bulma--” Wolfgang began. His throat was dry. “First you should know that she is alright; she’s not come to any harm.”

The black eyes flashed for a moment, but the voice that issued from the alien was low, very calm, almost regal in its measuredness: “Why should I care if that little whore has come to any harm or not?”

Wolfgang re-assessed the situation. “Oh!” He stood up. “This isn’t what it looks like. I’m not normally in Bulma’s bedroom. In fact, this is the very first time I’ve been in Bulma’s bedroom. She sent me here to get--” Wolfgang reached for the palm computer on the nightstand and deliberately ignored the communicator. “She sent me to get some notes of hers.”

“Why is everyone at the hospital?” Vegeta had noticed the bloody rocking chair. He was staring at it with a perfectly impassive expression.

“It’s amniotic fluid,” Wolfgang explained. “Bulma’s having a baby.”

Vegeta turned to look Wolfgang directly in the eyes, and this time Wolfgang saw surprise.

Vegeta’s lips parted slightly but he didn’t speak.

“She--” Wolfgang knew an explanation was in order, but he wasn’t sure where to begin. “You--”

Vegeta’s face composed itself. “Let the old man know that the ship is back and in need of repairs. I’ll be in the kitchen or in my room. Tell him to come right away.”

And he turned--the tail of the bathrobe whipping with his sudden movement--and walked away.

Wolfgang sprinted to the balcony. Sure enough, out there on a very far end of the lawn, surrounded by a modest sized crater, was Capsule 3. No wonder he hadn’t noticed it on his approach to the front door--it was much, much further from the house than where the take-off circle of scorched grass had been the night of the birthday party. Vegeta must have landed sometime after the family exodus to the hospital but before Wolfgang arrived.

Wolfgang walked back into the bedroom, picked up the neuro-com and pocketed it. Then he found Bulma’s telephone and rang Dr. Briefs’ service.

“Oh Dr. Briefs, I do hope that you will be bored enough in that waiting room to check your messages. I have some real news. The spaceship thief has returned. He’s in the family compound making himself at home….”

Wolfgang glanced toward the open balcony doors. No use staying at the house any longer if it meant being alone here with an ill-mannered alien.

“Mr. Vegeta said to tell you that the ship needs repairs. Quite the arrogant prick if you want my opinion, but I suppose he’s family to you now.” Wolfgang hesitated, trying to figure out how to end the message on a properly upbeat note. “Tell Bulma I have her little project and I’m happy to help out reading her data. Uh … call me when the baby’s born.”

Feeling a dim disgust with himself for not having displayed more testicular fortitude before the alien warrior, Wolfgang wondered if he should have a closer look at the spaceship on his way out.

No, first things first. The spaceship should be here at least until Briefs makes the necessary repairs. I’ll get my look at that machinery eventually. With any luck, Gero will make his own baby on my shift.

And he patted the communicator in his pocket.


Vegeta heard the vile, sniveling, weak, worm human male leave the building and fly away in its pitiful aircar.

He put down his sandwich. He had imagined that he would still have an appetite for Earth food, but he didn’t.

The transformation to Super Saiyan both used and created energy; maybe he didn’t even need to increase his caloric intake now.

The ship’s console had been badly burned during one of his training sessions inside the capsule. Vegeta needed to learn to control his new form with more finesse. He needed to go back to space to train, where Kakkarot and others could not detect surges in his power level.

Fix the ship, get some food and supplies--he had hoped that Bulma could make him new armor since the one uniform he had worn in space was worn out, but she was busy, wasn’t she? Who knew how long the human birth process took?

It was no doubt a vile, disgusting biological process accompanied by uncivilized and disgusting human ritual, and Vegeta didn’t want to think about it….

And yet, his mind couldn’t help but land on the fact that Bulma was having a child… now… somewhere…. Had the worm mentioned a hospital?

He had not stopped thinking about her in space. But sometime after his transformation, her memory had become a static one, a series of erotic images conjured for sexual release--the taste of her mouth, the sounds she made, the slick place between her legs. Sometimes there had been images of trees, the broad sunlight in the atrium or the dark softness of her bedroom … or the buoyant movement of the pontoon bridge… BUT … she had ceased talking to him in his memories. She had stopped being a person.

Now she was a person again, and she was giving birth to an infant person at that.

The worm’s, no doubt. Even the Yamcha creature would have been a better partner for her.

Stop it.

The worm didn’t even want to acknowledge his relationship with her. Why was that?

Stop it. None of it matters.

She was probably useless to him now that she had become some sort of breeder; the old man could build him more armor.

She is human, let her fuck other humans and have human offspring. She has her human life.

Vegeta flashed on the image of Bulma, the subject of all his sexual fantasies in space, writhing under the human worm and making those panting noises of hers.

The image aroused him with lust and rage.

Fuck her!

The gravity machine was broken; there was no pressure anywhere to counteract the sudden urgency of his muscles. Vegeta wanted to level the building--just like that, with simple stroke of energy, the way he had toppled mountains on other planets in space.

And then, with the fearsome discipline he had taught himself during all those years he had served in Frieza’s army, he flattened the impulse instead of Capsule Corporation.

He picked up his sandwich.

I am Super Saiyan.

He finished the sandwich in two bites. He shut his eyes and raised one corner of his lips in a faint expression of satisfaction. He could see nothing but the rubble of a holocaust.

After I destroy the androids and Kakkarot, I will destroy this world.

When he opened his eyes, the shiny cupboards, the basket of fruit on the table, a magnet in the shape of palm tree on the refrigerator told him he was in the Briefs’ family kitchen, but it was all random data.

He would go upstairs to sleep for a long time. There was nothing else to do but wait for the old man to fix the ship. Sleep, since becoming Super Saiyan, had been dreamless and sound. Waking life had one goal: stronger, be stronger, strong enough to destroy Kakkarot.

Everything else was random data. Everything else was meaningless.


“Just decide on a focal point and keep it.” Yamcha’s voice was gentle but starting to reveal his irritation. “You keep looking at me. Look at a speck on the wall or something.”

He was frowning and looking lost.

Bulma narrowed her eyes and focused them like lasers on Yamcha’s face. “You really suck at this, buster.”

Yamcha’s face softened. He had always been a fool for Bulma’s angry look. “C’mon, babe, I think you can find a focal point. How about my nose?” He squeezed her hand and managed a goofy smile. “How about my scar?”

Bulma shut her eyes.

“Good, good,” Yamcha said. “Focus on something inside yourself. What are you visualizing?”

Bulma spoke through gritted teeth: “I’m visualizing cutting off Vegeta’s penis with a dull razor.”

“Woah! I guess whatever works for you, hon.”

He patted her arm until the contraction passed. When she opened her eyes and looked like she was done hurting, he checked his wristwatch.

“Yamcha? Do you really need to time them when they’re coming one on top of another?” Bulma’s voice was hoarse but composed. She wanted to make a calm evaluation of her progress, but then she felt the whine in her throat even before she heard it: “Noooooo! This isn’t fair! A normal labor is supposed to be twelve hours long. This is happening too fast and too hard.”

The very first contraction had not been painful at all, but it had felt as if her whole body was straining to burst through its own skin. She had counted with delight: one thousand, two thousand, three thousand…A real contraction! My Trunks is coming! It had all seemed “do-able” then. She’d experienced stomach viruses that hurt worse, and contractions didn’t seem so bad; there were even long breaks of feeling perfectly normal between contractions.

By the time she had arrived at the hospital, however--only minutes after Yamcha called the ambulance--her labor was in full swing and the pain was monumental. The doctors had thought that a caesarian might be in order because of the bleeding and possible oxygen deprivation to the baby, but soon it was clear that Trunks Vegeta Briefs had already entered the birth canal and was going to barrel his way through within the hour.

Bands of pressure seized Bulma; the bands were around her head, heart, belly and limbs. It was like being fucking squeezed in a medieval torture device. “Not again!” she heard herself say.

“It’s happening!” Yamcha said to someone else in the room, and she knew it was time to push.

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