The world outside Capsule Corp. was unrecognizable. Once a beacon of technological advancement and hope, the Earth now lay in ruin. The skies, once blue and vibrant, were now darkened with a constant haze of ash and debris. The scent of burning, of death, hung heavy in the air. Cities were reduced to skeletal remains of steel and stone, with few survivors hiding among the rubble, too terrified to face the terror that roamed the lands freely.
Bulma stood by the window of her dilapidated lab, her aging fingers clutching the frame as she gazed out at the decimated horizon. The sight no longer stirred the anger or fear it once had. All that remained now was a numb acceptance of this reality—a reality where her son, Trunks, was dead, and with him, any hope of defeating the Androids had been buried. A sharp pain twisted in her chest at the thought of Trunks. Every day, his absence weighed on her, a gaping hole that refused to heal. She had buried him herself, not far from Capsule Corp. in a place where flowers used to grow.
Gohan was gone too. Her last connection to the Z-Fighters, the last hope for the planet, gone in a bloody battle. He had been the strongest of them all, yet even his immense power was no match for the monsters that ravaged the Earth. She could still hear the echoes of his scream from the day he died.
It had been years since his death, and in all that time, she had been alone. No Goku, no Vegeta, no Piccolo. All the warriors, the heroes who had once stood between humanity and annihilation, were either dead or unreachable. The planet was at the mercy of the Androids—merciless machines with the faces of humans but devoid of any compassion.
For a long time, Bulma had tried to keep the remnants of society alive, providing shelter, food, and resources where she could. But the truth was inescapable: without fighters to protect them, it was only a matter of time before the Androids wiped out what was left.
That was when the desperation set in. Grief had given way to something darker—an obsession, a relentless drive to save what little was left. She had already lost everything; there was nothing more to lose. The only thing left was to fight back, but not in the way she had before. She couldn't fight the Androids herself, but she could do what she did best: create.
Bulma had always been a genius, unmatched in her scientific prowess. And now, that genius was the last hope for Earth. But as she stood in her lab, surrounded by the broken, half-finished pieces of old projects, she felt the weight of the years press down on her. She was aging, too—faster than she liked to admit. Her once vibrant blue hair was streaked with gray, and her hands trembled as they worked late into the night. She had tried everything—rebuilding the time machine, creating new weapons, sending distress signals to space—but nothing had worked.
Her mind wandered back to the dark days of Dr. Gero, the mad scientist who had created the Androids. In some twisted way, his work had succeeded. He had made fighters who were more powerful than anyone could have imagined—monsters, yes, but powerful ones. Gero had been insane, but his methods… his methods had worked.
And so, the thought came to her, unbidden at first, then growing stronger with each passing day: what if she did the same? What if she took a page out of Dr. Gero's book?
The idea of creating her own warriors disgusted her at first. It was an affront to everything she believed in. But as the weeks passed, as the world crumbled further, the thought took root. If she could build something, someone, that could stop the Androids, would it matter how it was done? She was running out of time. They all were.
She knew what it meant to tamper with such forces, to play with the essence of life itself. But the world had already been destroyed. Her son was dead. Gohan was dead. Everyone was dead. If she didn't act soon, the Earth would follow them.
Bulma's gaze hardened as she made her decision. She would do what was necessary.
In the following weeks, Bulma's mind became consumed with a single focus: she would create new fighters—stronger, faster, and deadlier than even the Androids themselves. She hated the thought of following in Dr. Gero's footsteps, but in the end, she had no choice. If she could do it right, these creations would be humanity's salvation, not its destruction.
She studied every file she could find on Dr. Gero's research. His approach had been brutal, twisted by his hatred of Goku, but effective. His brilliance was undeniable. He had taken the DNA of the most powerful beings he could find and merged it with technology to create his monstrous Androids. But Bulma could do better. She had more resources, more knowledge—especially now, after years of study. And she had access to something Dr. Gero had never considered: the DNA of the greatest fighters who had ever lived.
Trunks had given his life in battle, and with that sacrifice, he had left behind something Bulma could still use. His blood, his DNA, remained locked in storage from his final mission. And Gohan—she had enough samples from the many injuries he'd endured, his hair, his blood from battle. There was Piccolo's Namekian resilience, Frieza's alien power, and even the remnants of Saiyan blood from old experiments done by her father in the past.
She shuddered at the thought of using Frieza's DNA. The tyrant who had brought so much death and destruction to their universe would now be a part of her creation. But it was necessary. Each piece of DNA brought something unique to the table: Frieza's raw power and adaptability, Piccolo's regenerative abilities, Gohan's potential for immense strength.
As she worked, there were moments when she paused, staring down at the biological samples with a mixture of dread and determination. Was this what it had come to? Using the DNA of the very beings who had once terrorized the universe? But she reminded herself that this wasn't about ethics anymore. The Earth was dying, and no one else was coming to save it. The Z-Fighters were gone. She was the only one left who could make a difference.
It took months to set up the laboratory again, but Bulma worked tirelessly. The infrastructure of the world outside was crumbling, and the atmosphere was deteriorating from the constant destruction. Acid rain fell from the skies, and ash covered the once-green lands. In the distance, she could hear explosions—the Androids, probably playing with the last pockets of human resistance. Time was slipping away.
Eventually, her creation began to take shape. Using the same accelerated growth model that had once been employed for the Saibamen, Bulma could grow her new warriors in a fraction of the time it would take for natural development. Each generation emerged more powerful than the last, their DNA optimized for combat, their strength surpassing that of the previous model. She called them her "Generations," and with each iteration, they got closer to what she envisioned: the perfect warriors.
But there were problems, setbacks she hadn't anticipated. Some of the early models were too unstable, their power too uncontrollable. They would destroy themselves before they could be tested. Others were powerful but had no will to fight. Some lacked the necessary mental fortitude. And for every failure, her health deteriorated further.
She was pushing herself too hard. Long nights bled into long days, and sleep became a rare luxury. She often woke up at her workbench, her face pressed against schematics, her body aching from exhaustion. The cough had started small—a few drops of blood on her hand after a fit. But it was growing worse, and Bulma knew what it meant. The years of working in a polluted atmosphere, the stress, the sleepless nights—it was all catching up to her. She didn't have much time left, but she refused to stop.
The 10th generation would be the one to succeed. It had to be.
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