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ONE
The dark above the dunes was tarnished by pinpricks of ancient light. These specks of distant suns were like one-way time travelers. Or ghosts. Earthlings were obsessed with them, these mishmashes of pseudosciences with the supernatural. But, perhaps, out there, there was a star. Yes, a ghost star, haunting him since the death of Planet Vegeta. And once its supernova status was visible on Earth, ten million years hence, would anyone in the living universe remember the Saiyans?
Vegeta was one of the living few who could recall the date of Saiyan destruction. Every day, on that date, according to the Vegetian calendar, he meditated in the desert alone, surrounded by barrenness reminiscent of a home he hardly remembered. Everyone would assume his disappearance was due to training. And that woman’ll complain how I’ve disrupted her schedule. But he could tell no one about this weakness, this need to grieve and commemorate, lest they pester him about needing that therapy thing promoted by Dr. Feel on TV.
Earth had been his base of operations for twenty years, a galactic backwater from where he had failed to broadcast his mightiness to the universe. But it had become a magnet for mighty warriors throughout the galaxy; they sought to test themselves against the destroyers of Frieza and his forces, not knowing he dwelled in a parallel universe. And here was home to five--FIVE!!!--Super Saiyans, more than had ever existed concurrently in The Oozaru Chronicle (the complete and authorized royal history of Saiyans going back five millennia to Plantius Vegetalius the Conqueror). It’ll be six in a few years if that girl ever follows training orders. His father would have been bewildered by tailless Saiyans achieving the Golden Headspikes of lore and legend.
But would his father have smote him for mating with what was an alien weakling? But only physically. He may have sired a Super Saiyan--or two!--but royal blood had been adulterated. He was guilty of corruption by alien lust, an unpardonable sin to his people that was punished by hand amputations (the ultimate in humiliation). Perhaps it was better not knowing what his father would have thought of the Crown Fist of All Saiyans being as docile as a Tuffle.
But he knew what Nappa thought, having been informed by Kakarot, thanks to his Other World connections with Goz and Mez. The former Supreme Saiyan General trained in katchin chains to pulp and pummel his annihilator when he, too, came below to the Dungeons of Despair. But Nappa would train in vain for eternity. Vegeta had been forgiven for planetary liquidations and the like when his self-immolation against Maijin Buu had been to save the universe; his self-sacrifice would have been scorned by Saiyans since it was not done in the name of conquest.
But he was not like those Saiyans. Not anymore. These new tailless ones, they were peaceable (but not necessarily more intelligent), yet more powerful. As in phenomenally powerful! Were they a new species? Bulma had asserted they were since comparing his chromosomes from before and after he became Super Saiyan; it explained why Trunks and Goten had been able to transition to golden hair before age seven and all but Gohan had been born without tails.
The Supreme Kai had meddled with Saiyan cells, too, three months ago. And the DNA of those sentient individuals affiliated with the Z Fighters (which somehow included loud buffoon and tail chopper). Aging had halted for most and it would desist around age thirty-two for younger members. Their lifespans had tripled, save that of the already immortal Baba and her pervert brother. All they had done was pledge to protect the universe when called upon by the wishy-washy Supreme Kai.
And Vegeta was the only one with a proviso to his pledge: any disavowal of the aforesaid oaths will result in immediate termination of the signee thereafter to the Wheel of Wretchedness for All Eternities and Everafters. Perhaps his nature had not altered as much as he believed, but, if anything, he would always remain Prince of All Saiyans.
TWO
And the Prince of All Saiyans had technically been King of All Saiyans since he was five (six-and-three-quarters in Earth years). But with neither a people nor a planet at his disposal, he had none of the onerous burdens of kingship. And such duties and obligations would have interfered with training for innumerable battle scenarios. It was better to remain at the rank of prince where royal business (like who was escorting Bulla to the dentist) was restricted to suppertime on Tuesday evenings.
And this Tuesday evening there would be pasta and salads, pizzas and calzones from Tiddlywinks. This pizzeria place had promised delivery in thirty minutes or less within West City. Until the night Trunks and his shadow had overwhelmed the restaurant with their orders for monstermungus hot wings. It was incomprehensible why the Prince of All Saiyans remembered something so--so inconsequential but--but--but--
That smell! Vegeta smelled that smell as he entered the designated dinner room. It’s all mine! His stomach crooned while he seized all boxes of sausage and pineapple surprise pizzas with cheesy bacon-stuffed crusts. Trunks scowled from across the table and grabbed all macaroni and pepperoni supremos. Saiyan father and son stood, glowering at each another, gorging and gobbling in competition that would be won by Vegeta. Only that ding-dong Kakarot could defeat the Prince of All Saiyans in eating tournaments.
“Silly Daddy, you’ve got sauce on your shirt!” Bulla laughed behind her plate heaped with pasta. “Do you need a bib like Uncle Goku?”
Vegeta did not growl at his saucy daughter. But Bulma did with ice-clogged eyes, sharing her scowl with Saiyans who always ate before she even sat down. He could already hear her scolding them for not exercising this lone courtesy at table. She said nothing about it, so Vegeta would not remind her Saiyans ate without utensils. Those Saiyans. But Super Saiyans used sporks and chopsticks when custom demanded it.
“So, Trunks,” Bulma spoke, after pizzas had disappeared, “any plans for your sabattlecal yet?”
“Sleeping in everyday.”
Sabattlecal? Vegeta would not have to mull over the meaning of this sabattlecal thing. “It’s means more time for gravity training,” he announced. “Your attacks are still sloppy.” Except when he’s training with Kakarot’s youngest spawn.
“Oh, I know why!” Bulla squealed. “That’s because--”
“Bulla!” Trunks leapt from his chair. “Be quiet!”
“--he needs a carrot!”
“And who told you this?”
“Uncle Goku said you’ll train for carrots,” Bulla giggled. “But not for sticks from Daddy. Then Gohan said Daddy’s got a stick up his ass like he’s--”
“BULLA,” Trunks thundered, “SHUT UP!” His veins convulsed as he repressed the instinct to power up.
“YOU’RE NOT MY DADDY!” her face reddened. “YOU CAN’T TRY TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO!”
“INSIDE VOICES!” Bulma roared. “HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO--”
“Trunks started it!” Bulla stuck her tongue out at her big brother. “And he’s only nice to me when Goten’s around.” Trunks offered his nastiest look to her, one that would have put fear into the Ginyu Force. “Well, it’s true!”
“Hnn.” Trunks snorted. “I’m off to train.” He deserted the table without swiping any desserts. Vegeta suspected he was going to visit his shadow, if that goofball was not preoccupied with his latest girlfriend.
“Nmph!” Bulla huffed. “He’s an ascended super meanie!” She flittered away from the table like a butterfly in her flowery costume wings. She flew away without food, too, so it left more chocolate volcano cake for Vegeta.
He reached for molten sweetness when Bulma cleared her throat. “Honey, go cheer up Bulla,” the Princess of All Saiyans commanded. “And I’ll deal with Trunks.” He had learned long, long ago it was futile to argue with that tone because she would block his access to all gravity rooms for days if he disregarded it.
Dessert would have to wait for hours because Bulla would only “cheer up” if he played Supersparkle Pixie Princess Shimmershine with her. This play and pretend thing, he had never done it before he had Earthly children. Saiyan younglings had mimicked and simulated combat (when not on the battlefield themselves), not imagined themselves to be cartoon superheroes as Gohan still did with Saiyaman (Bulma said it was because studying and training had taken up his childhood instead of comic books and video games).
THREE
Vegeta was pleased Trunks had roused himself around sunup on Saturday to train in 450G. But his execution of the most basic maneuvers had been as slipshod and slapdash as loud buffoon on his Saturday ¡Satano Gigante! specials. That girl should be watching me train instead of that insufferable fuckwit. Vegeta had delivered several blows his son ought to have countered with unconscious ease. But that boy, he was backsliding. Again. Like he had last Summer, when he could not--or would not!?--fuse into Gotenks with his favorite fightmate.
Vegeta paused pushups to peer at his son. After three hours Trunks sat hunched on the ground, peaked and paler than vanilla ice cream. His hands were too trembly for power blasts and he hid their unsteadiness in fists. He had behaved like this during his last bout with illness two years ago.
But that illness had been due to alien infestation. Trunks and Goten had eaten unidentifiable fish while camping and training in Yahhoi; within hours it had transformed them into glowing weaklings unable to walk in 100G. When Senzu beans did not reverse their deplorable states, Bulma had dispatched shrunken, microscopic-sized Vegeta and Kakarot (in a deep sea Capsule submarine) to investigate since they had that experience thing thanks to Maijin Buu. And they had discovered pea-sized, luminescent blobs picnicking in the appendices of both boys, an organ part of their human inheritance. Vegeta would have deployed lethal force to expel and/or expunge those blobs had they not attacked Kakarot for autographs, his innards being (in)famous among their species. The celebrity stomach convinced them to continue their vacation elsewhere like, say, in rabbits.
And, now, there was this dating thing. It was diverting Trunks from brain and battlefield arts. And he was not even doing that dating thing! It was Goten and his girlfriends, these potential mates that Vegeta had neither seen nor heard. Trunks accompanied--no, he followed!--them to this club or that store, jettisoning his natural role as leader. This indolence had demoted him to saladtorian, too, allowing this Shirlee Locke to advance into valevictorian after he had eclipsed her last semester in those exam competitions.
“Uh, Dad,” Trunks interrupted pushups, “I, uh, I’ve got a question about, uh, Saiyans.”
"Huh!?" Vegeta thudded onto his belly. Trunks had not asked about Saiyans in years! He and his shadow groaned and groused whenever the Prince of All Saiyans enlightened them about their heritage (Bulma had no such trouble when telling them about her relatives in Braville and Brassiere who eschewed advanced technology). Gohan was the only Saiyan with a solemn interest in The Oozaru Chronicle but it was to disparage it as a massive hot mess of space myths. “Well, what is it?”
“Well, uh, do Saiyans have, uh, same sex ships?”
“As long as they were other Saiyans.” Vegeta could remember his seven-fingered Uncle Salatz who had always been accompanied by Kurrut the Razer; he had seen them kiss after demolishing cities by non-oozaru strength alone. “But those Saiyans, they’d've chopped my hands off, maybe my arms too, for creating half-Saiyans. And my mate and my children would've been slowly tortured to death before my eyes." And roasted to death for dinner if legends are true. "And they’d've mashed Kakarot into molecules since he's a lowly Rutiz."
Trunks sighed. “That’s so medieval.” He stood up, stretching his arms. Color flooded back to his face and his hands no longer trembled. “What’d they do to Super Saiyans then?”
“I don’t know.” Trunks headed toward the exit as if nothing had ailed him. “And where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m taking Goten to a monster trunk rally.”
Vegeta frowned. Didn’t they do that last month? “Why doesn’t he go with his girlfriend?”
Color fled from that boy again. “Oh, she, uh, doesn’t like how, uh, monster trunks are, you know, like monstrous.”
Goten’s girlfriends are as finicky as Frieza. “You better not waste your upcoming sabattlecal thing only on him.”
"Don't worry, Dad, I could never forget to train with you around to remind me."
FOUR
“JACK SNIPE,” Egret the Wildwing warned, “YOU KNOW NOTHING!” And Jack Snipe would continue to know nothing until he ceased whinging like Yamcha about the cold and the snow.
Earth fantasy entertainment wearied Vegeta. Except for one hour on Sunday nights when “Crown Deathmatch” aired. Daddy and Daughter watched Storks and Lannerwings vie for power in Kings Nesting. Vegeta well understood what Lord Falcwyn Lannerwing suffered; his hatchlings Queen Kestrel, Ser Jayhawke and Lord Turkeyn never heeded his sage counsel. Bulla preferred the Storks, especially Arylark as she plucked feathers from her list of enemies; perhaps it would enflame more martial arts interests for Bulla when Arylark reached the Beakless Birds at last.
“Hey Bulla!” Great galaxy, why was Goten here this time? He was always here nowadays, lurking, wearing a doofy, dopey smile inherited from Kakarot. “Um, aren’t you too young to watch the Violet Nesting?”
“I want to watch King Gyrfalcyn choke!”
“Oh.” Goten plopped beside her, not asking the couch occupants whether he was welcome at all. “Did you read the books?” Vegeta doubted that doltish dipstick could have gotten through one chapter in the best-selling series on Earth. The Prince of All Saiyans had read them, too, secretly, and was impatient for Book Six, The Wings of Winter. He would have intimidated the author had he not been placed in that Authors of Epic Series Protection Program.
“No, silly!” Bulla snorted. “Trunks gave me all the spoilers.”
Vegeta glowered at the always grinning interloper. “And what’re you doing here tonight?”
“Me?” Goten gaped. “Me and Trunks’re going to the Big Garth and 3Bling concert.” Vegeta would have to look up who these noise composers were. Earth had an endless supply of them, all casually hooting and tooting about the solemn matter of love. “Hey bestie, looking angsty!”
Vegeta looked toward his son as he walked into the room. Shiny blackness encircled eye sockets. Fingernails glinted jet like the treacherous talons of Freiza. “What have you done to your fingernails?”
Trunks sneered like Zarbon. “Oh, let me guess: Saiyans don’t paint their nails.”
“Get it off now!”
Icy eyes skated in circles. “It’ll wear off in training tomorrow.”
“I said--”
“Goten,” Bulla chirped, “are you sleeping over?” Goten would not be doing this sleeping over thing if schools did not close to celebrate the birthday of loud buffoon. Great-fucking-galaxy, this was yet another trivial fact that Vegeta should not have messing with his mind.
“Um, I dunno,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”
“Will you read me Professor Poosh? Daddy doesn’t like The Pig In The Wig.”
“Of course he will,” Trunks answered. “If you don’t wake us before eight in the morning.” He yanked Goten by the arm, dragging him off the sofa into whatever silliness they had scheduled tonight. And now, without interruptions, Daddy and Daughter could enjoy watching King Gyrfalcyn choke on toxic birdseed. And then he would read Bulla her favorite book about the pretty purple pig in a big pink wig.
FIVE
Vegeta winced. Two decades on Earth ought to have revealed all patterns and permutations of absurdity permissible for human and humanlike behaviors to him. These family school functions, they were among the most absurd--no, they were THE epitome of absurdity!--social customs to ever be concocted by these chatterers. He was stranded on a quiet isle, amidst the sea of predatory tongues baiting him into blab and babble, listening to blustering winds about whose child was the brightest bulb. These obnoxious braggarts were blind to the obvious: his son was literally and figuratively the brightest student here!
Finally, at last, these babblers slowed their aggravating tongues. But it was to listen to terrible music, composed of discordant hooting, clanging and squawking produced by children who were supposed to be music virtuosos. All they were was virtually better than the cacophony these dang-blasted teenagers blasted, Trunks being no exception. And now such noisome teenagers appeared, capped by silliness and draped in shapelessness. One by one by one, they tramped to a festooned platform for this graduation thing.
When all these students were seated, the school commanders gushed and disgorged speeches on integrity, diligence and perseverance. They droned on and on and on like Zarbon had about his beauty earning him sixteen consecutive Mr. Galaxy titles. Vegeta yawned. This would be an ideal time to nap, like Kakarot was, but that woman beside him was armed to enforce tedium. “We’re in a no snore and mobile zone!” She demanded his “full” attendance at four or five of these family school functions per year so she could pretend their family was “normal”. Arguments about how their normality was of a superior standard did not sway her.
And so, the supreme school commander, this Principal Aimes, began to read names aloud like Captain Ginyu had proposed names for new poses. One by one by one, students plodded off and from tiered benches to receive a scroll before reseating themselves. What a wretched waste of everyone’s time! Why had he had to come when the likes of Dr Briefs and Yamcha and Krillin did not? Finally, the line shortened, until the best cadets were left, those who were sumo-comb-lauds like Trunks. Soon this nonsense would end and the feasting begin, catering provided by most expensive restaurant on Earth for the gathering Z Fighters. Already his mouth thirsted for the taste of tursteakducken, served with eels and snails and--
“TRUNKS KAKAROT BRIEFS!”
“Kak-a-rot!?” His jaw dangled like almost severed limbs while those around him cheered. “Kak-a-rot!?”
“Huh!?” he heard Kakarot waken. “Is it over?”
“Vegeta, be quiet!” Bulma jabbed at his feet with spiked heels. “There’re already enough people staring at us.” How could they not when Bulla had brought a pink Recoome-sized plushie along.
“This,” he hissed low, “what is this Trunks Kakarot Briefs?”
“That’s our son’s legal name.”
“What do you mean by legal name?”
“Great balls of dragon fire!” Her eyes lurched in that typical human gesture of annoyance inherited by Trunks. “Haven’t you ever looked at our marriage certificate? Your children’s births certificates?”
“Why should I? I always remember our anniversary and their birthdays.” Unlike Kakarot who wouldn’t if cake wasn’t involved.
“Typical Saiyan,” she huffed, head wobbling side to side. “It’s customary to have three to six part names,” she explained. “This ensures no one shares a name, especially for tax and medical purposes. I’m Bulma Girdel Corselet Briefs and Dad’s Brief Boxer Briefs and Mom's--”
“And you should’ve named our son Trunks Vegeta Briefs.”
“You know, I could’ve named him Yamcha Yajirobe instead.”
“Hmph.” Vegeta crossed his arms. “And what did you name Bulla?”
“Bra Bulma Eschalot Briefs.” Bulma leaned in closer as the latest speech loudened. “See, I honored your grandmother.”
And yourself. “Hmph.” No wonder that girl’s so stubborn. “Another ridiculous custom of yours.”
“Aren’t you curious about your legal name?”
“Prince Vegeta, of House Leaffi, Crown Fist of All--”
“Vegeta McVegetason Briefs.” She pecked his left cheek. “You took my family name upon marriage.” His jaw hung ajar, a horrible habit acquired while living with that woman. “I’ve forged plenty of documents for you and Yam--”
Colossal cacophony came from the students. They hooted and whooped like Goten on Half-Priced Hot Wings Thursdays at Wing World. Those ridiculous caps leapt skywards; none soared higher than what Trunks tossed far from visibility. They ripped off their robes, displaying insensible duds called trendy by these fashion police Vegeta had yet to see. Students dashed and darted from the platform although their former commanders insisted they do so orderly.
Trunks jumped over elbowers and shovers. The crowd parted (as they should for royalty) so he could land in the aisle beside his seated family and fightmates. Goten vaulted from his seat first, grabbing onto his “bestie" fightmate as if to hug Trunks. But they were hugging. And they hugged tightly. Trunks had let Goten slither arms around his waist so they stood chest to chest.
“Dude, you’re officially an adult now!” Goten babbled. “But I’m still dreading the graduation ceremony.”
Trunks grinned, “I’ve got 'til March to prepare you for the agony.”
“Hmm,” Goten thought aloud, “if we’re Gotenks, does that mean I’ve graduated already?”
They laughed. Bulma, Chi-Chi, Gohan, Bulla and Pan budged into their embrace, claiming lengthy ones for themselves. Other huggers had their turns, too, but no hug was as prolonged as the first between favorite fightmates. Vegeta did not offer any embraces to his son for public spectacle. A warrior prince must never expose weaknesses like that to potential enemies. But Vegeta would congratulate his son for enduring twelve years of that study thing. And, perhaps, reward him too. Like go a few day without reminding him he needed to train more.
SIX
Saiyan females were strong-willed. They were physically four to eight percent weaker than males, but their stubborn obstinance negated any deficiency in muscle. Logical deduction reasoned that a half-Saiyan female ought to have her hardheadedness halved. But with Bulma as her mother, Bulla was her mother multiplied, on what these Earthlings referred to as “being on steroids.”
After she learned to fly at age four, Bulla had refused to further her studies in martial arts. She would neither bash, smash, thrash nor crush, smush, thrush. She would not train to be a warrior princess. Not with Daddy. Not with Trunks. Not even with Uncle Kakarot. Well, perhaps, maybe she would. Maybe. But only if Daddy played Supersparkle Pixie Princess Shimmershine with her. For an hour. Before--not after!--lessons. Frequent reminders to her that she was Princess Stalwart of All Saiyans did not deter her from this pretending thing little Earthlings did.
So, here he was, coerced into playing this pathetic game. Today Bulla was Ascended Supersparkle Pixie Princess Shimmershine while Vegeta was relegated to the role of villain in the guise of Countess Twinkletoes Glimmerglow of Twinkleton. He had to wear a tiara, gossamer wings and a frilly, flounced thing called a tutu over his training gear. It’s more humiliating than doing the fusion dance with Kakarot! This game, it was a secret of their immediate family. The likes of Yamcha and Krillin must never know. Not ever.
And here, in the gravity room at 120G, floating, Bulla pirouetted, forming an energy whirlpool. She raised her wandstick--no, the Supersparkle Scepter of Sparkliness--gathering energy into a heart-shaped mass; it wasted time (and energy itself) molding collected ki into stars and diamonds but it demonstrated superior command of energy. “Pretty Princess Heartbreak!” The big heart splintered into several heart-shaped beams, all attacking Vegeta. He deflected them, but must feign defeat by spinning around on tiptoes five times while shouting “Pretty time!”
“Dude, that’s totes adorbs!”
Goten!? Vegeta leapt to his feet. He ripped off the gold and purple costume and incinerated evidence of its existence in his fists. He bestowed his glower on laughing interlopers, that boy and his favorite fightmate. Goten brays like Kakarot. When their juvenile amusement subsided, Vegeta demanded answers: “What're you doing here?”
“Goten!” Bulla rushed to the trespasser. “Goten, will you play Supersparkle Pixie Princess Shimmershine with me too?”
“Sure,” the dimwitted Saiyan agreed. “Can I be Professor Gloom von Doom?”
“You’re too nice to be him!”
While they tittered about twinkles, Vegeta dragged that boy aside so Bulla would not hear them. He slammed him against the katchin wall by the whirring graviton generators (Bulma had summoned Shenlong for tons of the hardest substance in the universe). “Why is Goten here?” His power level surged with anger. “This game was designated a royal family secret!”
“Yeah, I know, but--”
“No buts!” Vegeta spat. “You violated a life-or-death trust.”
“I didn’t!” the boy pushed his sire away. “Gotenks did.” He grinned that grin, that triumphant one, bearing teeth like when Saiyans smote enemies. “There’s a little memory exchange when me and Goten merge.” Vegeta felt his jaw unhinged again. “We’ve kept it secret for years.” The boy slapped Vegeta on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Dad, Goten’s very trustworthy. He’s never said anything about your ticklish feet.”
“Hmph.” Nothing else could be said since Vegeta struggled to rediscover words. Perhaps he had been mistaken to encourage those mischievous boys in fusion training so much. “Hmph!”
SEVEN
Pan was spending the night over to sleep. Bulma said these sleepover things were customary for children, not teenagers who “crashed the night” with friends. There had been hours of Supersparkle Pixie Princess Shimmershine play before Bulla and Pan fell asleep in the Gravity Room near ten. And it had fallen to Vegeta to carry them to bed, too, since Bulma would not brave 200G though she spent hours everyday in her gravity-controlled lab to increase her strength.
And now, at six in the morning, Goten, the constant crasher of night, walked around sockless and shirtless in sleep shorts decorated by Kung Fu Raccoon, that buffoonish cartoon Trunks had once liked. How childish. He was raiding the refrigerator, much like his father did when teleporting over for a small snack at any hour of the day. Goten grabbed a milk carton and drank its contents in one gulp.
“Uhhhm!” Milk dribbling from his mouth was wiped away with his forearm. “Hey Vegeta!” he shouted. “I bet you’re off to train.”
He’s more nitwitted than his father. “Hmph.” Vegeta glowered at the guest who had become vile interloper after two consecutive nights here. “And what’re you doing here this time?”
“Here’s closer to the club we left at one.”
“Why not go to your girlfriend’s house?”
“My--my girlfriend’s house!?” the lesser and messier spawn of Kakarot sputtered, this model to be designated Kakarot 3.0. “Nah, I--um, I prefer it here, yeah.” He hiccuped, reaching into a cookie jar. “Hey, I always know there’s enough food for a growing Saiyan in your fridges.”
“Hmph.” He must’ve been dumped again. “You must be why the grocery bill’s doubled around here.”
“Mom says the exact same thing!” Kakarot 3.0 warbled like a malfunctioning scouter. “But we all know it’s from my dad, right?” He downed a dozen chocolate chunk cookies at once without chewing. “That’ll keep my stomach quiet til at least ten.”
“Remember you’re training at nine.”
“Ah, but I’m a guest here.”
“You know the rule when you stay here."
“You nag as much as Uncle Piccolo.” Kakarot 3.0 twisted his face with a clownish grin. “He says dating’s making us mindless slugs--
Us!?
“--but he’s kind of a slug himself!”
That boy, he’s dating too! Vegeta strode from that snorting monstrosity to listen to his thoughts. It puzzled and perplexed him: why his son would keep his dating thing secret? Trunks would not be disowned for who he dated. Unless she was one of the blood-freezing nieces of King Cold. Vegeta would always recall his one and only meeting with Icey, Burrah and Frosta when he was twelve; their tests of his strengths had banished him to a medical machine for five weeks. I’ll have to investigate his potential mate’s strength. Trunks had plenty of time to select a mate if the Supreme Kai had given him extended life, but it would be difficult for him to find someone strong enough to kiss the Saiyan way beyond the first time.
EIGHT
His hunger alarm did not rouse him before dawn. He had been awake since three, his mind beleaguered by an insignificant and infinitesimal matter as nettlesome as loud buffoon. Curiosity could, if not would, be relieved by Bulma. But she was newly asleep beside him, drooling on her tablet loaded with data on nanoquantum chronodynamics. She was constructing a chrononomical transdimensional communicator so they could get in touch with Future Trunks. He didn’t have Goten as his favorite fightmate.
Vegeta risked her sleep-deprived wrath. “Bulma.” He tapped her shoulder. “Bulma!”
She leapt, limbs jangling with blankets until she sat up. “Huh?” Her bloodshot zeroed in on him. “Honey, what is it?”
“When is Kakarot’s youngest going to stop being a guest here?” That dingbat doofus had crashed here for three consecutive nights now and had been ruining new drying cloths designated for use by Vegeta, along with stealing food and clothes from Trunks.
“Great balls of dragon fire, I’ve told you again and again.” Her eyes somersaulted. “If you don’t want someone to eat what’s ‘yours’, put it in your own fucking fridge.”
Vegeta recalled what Gohan had done when he was seventeen. “But doesn’t he need to be home to study?”
“Our son’s helping him improve in biomechanics and econophysics so he won't freeze come exam time.” She smoothed the blankets and laid back down on her left side. “And you should be grateful Goten’s been around to play Princess Shimmershine with Bulla.” Vegeta could not win this argument since she mentioned that; Kakarot 3.0 was without qualms when it came to wearing sequined tutus. "Now let me get some sleep. I still need to heal from our afternoon quickie in the lab, Your Mightiness."
NINE
It was late afternoon when Vegeta returned home from productive training with Piccolo. As he entered, his ears were irritated by cackling. Like Zarbon’s cruel laugh. He expected such cacophony from Kakarot 3.0, not from his serious but slackious son. This disturbing noise would be investigated. But on his way there he was waylaid by Bulla. Her welcome home hug was a deathly choke; it reminded him of his little brother Tarble, clinging onto him whenever Nappa had come to give him one-on-one lessons.
“Hi Daddy!” Her arms slowly unstrangled him. “I’ve got two new jokes for you!” Gohan must have taught her more when she went to play with Pan yesterday. And told them stories about how people, places and things were like before Buu. “Why is Android 6 afraid of Android 7?”
There was but one logical answer: “6 is more powerful than 7.”
“Nope, 7 ate 9!” she giggled. “And if Goku was a duck, what would you call him?”
Which bird is that? There were cluckers, gobblers, hooters, peckers, chirpers and squawkers. “I’d still call him Kakarot.”
“No, Quackarot!” she snorted. “Everyone else would call him Goquack.” Oh, the quacking bird! He struggled not to smiled at the imagine of Kakarot as that waterbird with the orange beak. But, yet again, he betrayed habits long held. Saiyans were only supposed to smile at the misery of others, something Earthlings called schoodenfroodie. “Ah, are you laughing?”
“Hmph.”
Bulla accompanied him to the movie room where laughter still reigned. Trunks and his simpering shadow were slouched on the couch with popcorn, watching something ridiculous because it was always something ridiculous. And Vegeta deigned to listen to ridiculousness: “Tonight on Mystifying Mysteries, part three of an in-depth investigation into the mysterious fighters from the Cells Games.” Why did those boys waste so much time on these untruthers? If he behaved like a proper Saiyan prince he would obliterate liars like--
“Daddy,” Bulla pulled his arm as fake Trunks fought on screen, “why don’t you ever tell us about Future Trunks?”
“My mom says he was cute and superpolite,” Kakarot 3.0 offered unasked for commentary. “And hitched his pants up way too high, kinda like Gohan does.”
“Yes, he was very polite,” Vegeta glared at the lazy boys. “And he took the time to study battle tactics, not video game cheats, in his spare time.”
"Ah, Dad," Trunks smirked like Krillin did before laughing, “I’ve learned plenty on tactics in bio from watching cell attacks."
His punny things are worse than Gohan's. “Times are peaceful. The both of you can easily spend a day training in the Time Chamber like Future Trunks did. And you'll reach Super Saiyan 3 without Gotenks' help. We--you can't depend solely on Kakarot to protect the universe."
“What did you talk about with Trunks in there for a year? No, don’t tell me: you told him if you've got time to talk, then you've got time to train.”
We didn’t talk at all, though I wished we had. “Hmph.” Vegeta turned his view from those pesky pests. “You’ll have to ask him on his next visit.” I hope Bulla's device'll be able to call him soon. He strode from the room before he suffered more snark from that boy. “Bulla, come along, I’ll take you to Ice Cream World.” She cheered, jumping onto his back so she hung like the shell thing worn by dirty old hermit.
Walking away, he heard Kakarot 3.0 scolding Trunks: "Ah, you shouldn't give your dad such a hard time. He doesn't up and disappear like mine does when he doesn't want to do something, even having family time." Vegeta was not sure if he should consider that a compliment thing. But it pleased him to know Goten deemed his attempts at "family time" to surpass those of Kakarot.
TEN
Fiery fingers fizzled in the amber sky above the molten plain. Dry air sizzled with electricity. Fumaroles gushed steam from sulfurous stews deep beneath the crust, its seething fog shrouding the Super Saiyan 3. What if the Supernova Galick Blast killed him? Vegeta approached with caution. Scorching winds shriveled the shroud. There, amid the detritus of their duel, Kakarot knelt, wheezing, golden hair gone, shriven of his power and his clothes. Yet he laughed!
“Well?”
“That--that took most--most of my--my power,” sweat-drenched Kakarot huffed. “I--I--you too--you’re ready to surpass--”
“DADDY!”
Vegeta jolted. He laid abed, jumbled in sheets. And two costumed girls jumped up and down, neither threatening to demolish the bedstead since it was constructed of the hardest substance in the universe.
“Daddy, can we go now?” Bulla bounced onto his chest. “Can we go see Supersparkle Pixie Princess Shimmershine Versus Doldrums the Dinosorceror?”
He swatted her aside to read the bedside clock. “Great galaxy, it’s three in the morning!”
“We’re not sleepy,” Pan chirped in. “Uncle Veggie, we haven’t slept at all.”
“The earliest showing’s at eight.”
“We could fly to Satan City,” Bulla tittered. “It’s nine o’clock there.”
Pan giggled, “And Gramps has his own theater.”
“But he’d talk during the whole movie about how he’d defeat the Dinosorceror.”
“Hey, I know: Goten can take us!”
“You’re not going with Goten!” Vegeta bolted upright. “We’ll leave in twenty minutes for East City.”
Bulla choked him around the neck. “You’re THE bestest, Daddy!” Yes, Daddy was the bestest, bestester than Kakarot at daddying.
ELEVEN
Sunlight trampled the western zones of Earth. Vegeta soared over untroubled southern seas with weighted thoughts slowing his flight home. Below him thousands of tiny islands splotched aquatic serenity like scars. Medical machines had not alleviated his body of all battlefield mementos. Bulma insisted men of mystery with a few scars were sexy, but did that include those injuries bestowed upon pride?
Recent observations of dueling Supersparkle Pixie Princess Shimmershines, battling over who was sparklier, had rendered an undesirable conclusion: Pan was more powerful than Bulla! How could this be when the granddaughter of Kakarot--Kakarot 4.0?-- was but one-fourth Saiyan? Perhaps Vegeta had underestimated the strength inherent to Ox and Satan blood, but it was of little consequence. He must discern subtle means to coax Bulla into training more than one or two hours per day; when he was five he had lived in battle simulations for eight to ten hours daily without any inducement. Perhaps if Pan spent the Summer then--
Two incredible ki upsurges disturbed his ruminations. He recognized them as Trunks and Kakarot 3.0, their ripples originating from a nearby island. What foolery had his son been beguiled into now? Great Galaxy, there’re no limits to where their silliness leads. But they could be impressing these unseen girlfriends with their martial prowess; this was a much more intelligent means of enticing potential mates than deploying cars and clothes like Yamcha did.
Vegeta swooped down onto the north-facing beach where the youngest Super Saiyans dallied. It was only them, both equipped for aquatic leisure activities rather than underwater battle simulations. Each carried an oblong plank as long as himself; these planks were splattered with cartoon-patterned eyesores which were deemed “eye art”. This art thing, Earthlings profusely incorporated everything imaginable into it when the only arts Vegeta recognized were martial or gymnastic.
“Hey Vegeta!” Kakarot 3.0 waved, his mouth hanging wide open. “You’re looking veggielicious, man.”
“Goten, shut up!” Trunks smacked his fightmate upside the head, much like Bulma did Krillin and Oolong for their bumptious tongues. And, like them, Kakarot 3.0 did not retaliate, demonstrating he deferred to princely authority. “Dad, don’t worry, our ‘fun’ incorporates energy attacks so it’s not like completely trivial.”
“Yeah, dude, like totally!” Kakarot 3.0 laughed. “It takes some bitchin’ skills to shred them radical waves, man.”
What is this gobbledygook he’s sprouting now? “Hmph.” Vegeta crossed his arms. “Show me this, this ‘shredding’.”
“Alright, dude!” Kakarot 3.0 shouted. “Surf’s up!” He dashed into the sea with his oblong plank. The bright board was tossed upon listless waters. He plopped atop the plank, backside to the sun, and paddled out of sight by a most preposterous method.
“KAMEHAMEHA!”
Trunks!? How in the eleven-plus-seven Saiyan netherhells could that boy--HIS SON!--use the attack developed by dirty old pervert? He had never deployed it before individually. Not in training. Not in battle. Not in front of me. This, this was the fiendish, nefarious influence of that--that--that fucktard!
That dastardly blast of concentrated ki plowed over placidness. Waves pitched east and west, short, sharp and choppy. To the north waters were pushed into a weltering wall; atop it Kakarot 3.0 perched, bright board beneath his feet. From the summit, the plank skidded down an incline, swerving and seesawing, until that goofy git coasted beneath a curling crest. The crest collapsed, devouring him like a leviathan.
And the sea surged ashore, enshrouding Vegeta and Trunks with its briny embrace. The deluge receded as swiftly as it came. Vegeta squeezed water from soppy, droopy locks. He shook his head, too, but it did little to restore his hair to its spiky state.
“See, Dad,” Trunks declared, “this wasn’t a total waste of time.”
“Dude,” Kakarot 3.0 laughed, “I’m a total wipe out, man.” Vegeta glared at that fucktard laying like a corpse near his boots.
What a whackadoodle. “Hmph.” Vegeta snorted. “Trunks, remember it’s family dinner night.”
TWELVE
Royal family dinner night had its sacred confidentiality violated tonight by Kakarot 3.0. This was his sixth day as a guest without taking a guest room. He ought to eat alone--no, he should go the fuck home!--but he was sitting next to Bulla, gobbling away, eating many delectable delights Vegeta had planned to hoard on his plates.
“Honey,” Bulma addressed him when his mouth was empty, “do you have objections to the new drying clothes I got you?”
“Hmph.” He would develop no opinion while Kakarot 3.0 took them for his own use.
And Kakarot 3.0 laughed, waving chopsticks around. “At least he says only one thing while eating.” He stuffed more squid into his face. “Unlike my dad who’s always--”
“When are you going home?” Vegeta inquired. “Or to your girlfriend’s house?”
“Huh!?” Kakarot 3.0 twisted with stupidity. “Well, I--you know--I--”
“He was dumped again,” Trunks answered. “He’s as unlucky in love as Uncle Yamcha.” That would explain why there was no girlfriend--or girlfriends?--on the beach.
“Yeah, that’s it!” Kakarot 3.0 laughed, seafood particles spewing from his mouth. “I might be the youngest Super Saiyan ever, but it doesn’t improve my chances with the ladies.”
Vegeta glared at the chittering chump. “Now you’ll have more time to train.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing with Trunks?”
“Goten!” Trunks thundered. “Shut up!” The way Trunks eyed his favorite fightmate was like how Bulma broadcast baseless disapproval of Saiyan behavior(s).
“Dude, I didn’t say anything."
“Not yet,” Trunks huffed. “And keep it that way.” He jammed calamari into his mouth and the favorite fightmates continued dinner in silence. They would have had no opportunity to speak since Bulla nattered on and on and on about the newest Princess Shimmershine action figures from the World Toy Fair.
THIRTEEN
Braying buffoons deterred enjoyment of morning cappuccinos flavored with squash and pumpkin spices. Those boys tottered through the kitchen, shouting “Hello Dad!” and “Hey Uncle Veggie!”, shadowed by pudgy, little tail-chopper Yajirobe who they had visited without reason. They staggered off to sleep, stinking of sozzled stupidity when gravity training was hours away. Tail-chopper wobbled toward the refrigerators; once opened he raided them with a Saiyan-esque appetite. Raw alligator meat!? Disgusted by the sight of him eating, Vegeta departed for the calm and comfort of 400G.
Four hours later, upper body training concluded, Vegeta returned to the refrigerators for a mid-morning snack. Tail-chopper had left them open. Sprawled like roadkill (which Bulma forbid her family to eat), he snored beneath the kitchen table. What a despicable parasite. Vegeta cleared his throat forcefully. The noise did not dislodge tail-chopper so Vegeta would have to speak to him. “GET OUT!”
Tail-chopper coughed. “Uh, oh, yeah,” he stammered, “I’ll have the, uh, pineapple pancakes with smokehouse sausage, yeah.”
Vegeta felt further rage welling from each and every cell in his body. “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”
Tail-chopper stirred slowly. “Uh, actually,” he sat up, rubbing beady eyes with beefy fists, “it’s Bulma’s house. Everyone knows that. You just live--”
“Silence, Earth scum! I’ll lop off your insolent little tongue.”
“Oh, really?”
“REALLY!”
“Well, uh, then you’ll, uh,” tail-chopper sputtered as he stumbled to his feet, “then you’ll never ever ever get a Senzu bean again, so there.”
Vegeta growled alien obscenities and profanities at loutish, slothful tail-chopper. He left, stomach unsated, to rouse those boys. They’re absolute fucking slackers. He stormed through double doors into the suite where they slept, expecting Trunks to accuse him of trespassing on sacred teenage privacy. Half-opened blinds threw slats of sunshine around the rooms, including on slumbering lumps tangled together in a crown prince-sized bed. Kakarot 3.0 had an arm and a leg looped around shirtless Trunks.
“WAKE UP!” Neither Saiyan stirred. He grabbed them by the ankles and pulled them from bed to floor. This did not yank them from the depths of slumber so he electrified them. Eyes bulged and teeth gnashed as they floundered into awareness. “Get up, you sluggish Earthlings!” the Prince of All Saiyans commanded. “If you have time for hangovers, then you have time to train.”
“Damn it, Dad,” Trunks mumbled as he sat up, rubbing eyes redder than Jeice. “Let us sleep it off just this once. We totally didn't know a sip of Yajirobe's microbrew would be so powerful.”
Vegeta spat, his spittle sizzling with energy. “You’re not becoming decrepit creatures just because you’re drunk.”
“We can take a day or two off each month.”
“Gohan does and it’s why he’s not as powerful as he should be.”
“Well,” that boy sneered, “he’s powerful enough to be Supreme Kai’s assistant when he goes to Other World.”
Vegeta wanted to scream like Bulma did when exasperated by teenaged Saiyans. But his screams would damage several square kilometers when he was on the verge of ascending. Slowly, ever-so-slowly, he defused rage by mentally reminding himself to “Save it for Kakarot!” for their sparring match scheduled in three months (New Time Chamber repairs permitting). Powered down, Vegeta deployed his most formidable glower that made civilizations crumble like fresh made sugar cookies. Now it gives Krillin indigestion. But those boys, they would heed--
Those boys, their necks were mauled by swollen egg-shaped marks in several shades of pink and scarlet. And shirtless Trunks had splotches scattered from neck to waist. Even his nipples have been gnawed! They must have encountered vermin when carousing with tail chopper last night. “Great-fucking-galaxy,” Vegeta gaped, “what’s on your necks?”
Trunks spat, “It’s none of your fucking business.”
“If it’s alien vermin--”
“They’re hickies,” Trunks snarled. “Just like the ones you give Mom.”
Hickies!? No, those hickie things, they had the indisputable stamp of Saiyan pair-bonding. Of course they didn’t listen to my lectures on mating. He had seen them shirtless innumerable times and had never seen lovemaking injuries marring their flesh before. “Did you mate with the first Earthling you fucked?”
“It’s none of your business!”
“Your future mate is my business.”
“No, it’s--”
"It is!" Vegeta felt blood inundating his brain. "Would you prefer I wasn't here at all?"
"I didn't say that! I-"
“Dude, cool it!” Kakarot 3.0 gently thumped Trunks upside the head. “C’mon, let's just tell him before someone else blabs about us first." He stared at Vegeta, almost looking serious as he did so. "Your son's mated to me."
"What!?" Vegeta gasped louder than Kakarot could fart. Trunks and Goten? Trunks AND Goten!? TRUNKS AND GOTEN!!! How long have they been deceiving him? No, how long haven't I noticed them? He eyed and eyed and eyed the bonded pair: Goten smiley and Trunks squirmy. “Were all your girlfriends a feint?”
“Dangnabbit, you’ve caught us!” Goten snorted. “But don’t worry. We’re not doing that in your house. Or anyone’s house. We know double Super Saiyan orgasms can de--”
“Goten!” Trunks gnashed his teeth. “Shut the fuck up! You--”
“We don't want him to think us irresponsible like--"
"You don't need to overshare with my--"
“So,” Vegeta gulped, “how long have you been cavorting?”
“Not that long,” Goten answered. “Only since late October.”
When their fusions dances began reworking. “And who else knows?”
"Everyone but my dad,” Goten babbled too bubbily. “We’re all waiting to see how long it takes him to notice. We did worry how Master Roshi would react, but he’s real chill about it; he’s got less competition for the ladies now. And Uncle Yam--”
“And why wasn’t I informed sooner?”
“Uh, Dad,” Trunks looked down at the floor, “I, uh, we didn’t know how’d you take it. You've never really said anything about Saiyan same sex ships and you--”
“Hmph.” Vegeta crossed his arms. “I mated with an alien weakling, the most heinous offense among Saiyans. Old Saiyans.” He paused, eyeing them to note how many mating marks that had faded into shadows. They don't have to make mating restraints for humans. “Don’t tell Bulma I called her an alien weakling. It’s a physical technicality, not mental or--”
“We won’t.”
"Good." Or else. "Well, then, you've--you've at least you’ve both had sense to select someone smart and strong.”
Goten smiled like his dimwitted sire. “So you’re not going to kill us?”
“Only if you’re not in the gravity room in twenty minutes, you lazy slugs.”
FOURTEEN
Twenty minutes hence, half-blooded Saiyans hibernated anew. It was embarrassing how they snuggled together like Bulla did with giant plush Doting Goats at night. I'm not like Grumpy Goat. Very well, Vegeta would permit them to indulge their vile sloth this time. And only just this once! His shock, his surprise--great-fucking-galaxy, how long would it take his brain to digest this? Trunks and Goten!? No, his mind would process this with immediate effect so it would not disrupt training because the deed was done: the boys were in love.
But how could he have been so oblivious to their--their--their mating? They had bite and scratch marks everywhere! Too bad their secret cavorting (and how he disliked family secrets!) could not have been sniffed out with pheromones by other Saiyans like it was with opposite sex ships. He had been in denial when it, that love thing, happened with Bulma and fled to outer space in terror when he realized he--Prince of All Saiyans!--bonded with a weak being. But her mind's the strongest on Earth. So, too, he had seen Videl on the beach in backless garments, exposing marks once she dated Gohan. And Vegeta had great difficulty imagining dorky Saiyaman behaving like that, like a mating Saiyan.
Vegeta zip-zoomed through the clouds in search of--well, what was he in search of? Kakarot. Goten had stated Kakarot was unawares of them, Trunks and Goten. But Vegeta would enlighten that clod Bulma continued to call his favorite fightmate with that word friend. And observe how stupefied he became at news of how their sons disported themselves now. That ought to relieve Vegeta of how thunderstruck he was at how oblivious he could about his son.
And Kakarot was found frolicking in the forests northeast of Satan City. He was weightlifting boulders in superweighted gear given him by the Supreme Kai. His latest training regime was ridiculous, focusing on strengthening his basest form. It had been almost two months since he transformed into a Super Saiyan; perhaps he had forgotten he was capable of ascending when he communed too much with nature.
“Hey Vegeta!” the cheerful clod called skyward. “Whats’s up?”
Vegeta dropped onto the moss-veiled ground. “Hmph.” His eyes swerved away from the doofy face grinning at him. “Kakarot, do you know what our sons have been doing?”
“They’ve been harmonizing all aspects of their ki to make a better Gotenks.”
“No,” Vegeta mumbled, “I didn’t mean that. I--I--I meant, um, well--”
“Oh, you mean the other thing!” Kakarot fractured into giggles. “It’s totes adorbs how everyone’s pretending not to notice they’re in love.”
“What!?” Vegeta thundered. “They’re not adorbs!” Energy gushed through him. “And they’re not in love!” How could Kakarot have already deciphered their relationship?
“Hey, you could be Goten’s father-in-law someday.”
“What!?” Vegeta glared at the laughing glob in orange. Marriage!? “I won’t consent to it!” Shock had delayed any consideration of what those boys would do besides bite each other. And, now, Kakarot, he mused about them subjecting everyone to that excruciating ceremony with aisles and altars. Vegeta had barely survived witnessing the ordeal where loud buffoon was father-of-the-bride, sobbing during the whole event. And he fucking hugged me too! Thankfully Bulma had not wanted any ridiculous ceremony for their marriage sixteen years ago.
“Bulma might divorce you if you don’t!” Kakarot tittered. “And, you know, she’ll get custody of all the gravity rooms, too. You’ll get a spaceship, though, to get your sorry carcass the hell off Earth.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Well, that’s what Chi-Chi says is in your prenup.”
“What prenup?” Vegeta would not have this uncultivated clod (as all Rutiz were wont to be) expose the Prince of All Saiyans as wanting in Earth knowledge. The Prince of All Super Saiyans. “Saiyans don’t have prenups.”
“Ah, c’mon, you don’t know what it is!”
“I do too!”
“Then what is it?”
“I don’t need to tell you.”
“Don’t be embarrassed.” Kakarot threw an arm around Vegeta as if they were on terms to be favorite fightmates. Which they were not. And would never be. Not so long as Vegeta remembered he was royal born and bred by Leaffi Saiyans. Even if we're Super now. “I didn’t know Bulma was a girl when I met her.”
Vegeta slapped the offending arm away. “Go take a bath.”
“I smell already?” Kakarot sniffed each armpit twice. “Oh, guess I did forgot to bathe today. With all those pushups I was doing to prepare for our--”
“Shut up!” Vegeta thundered along with his stomach. “Leave me alone!”
“You’re hungry too?” Kakarot grabbed Vegeta by the shoulder. “Man, I know a great restaurant on Yardrat where--”
“I don’t want to go.”
Kakarot laughed as two fingers splatted on his forehead. “You always say that!” And they flittered from sight on Earth, instantaneously transversing eons of light years, to reappear at a drive thru of an extraterrestrial fast food franchise.