The days in Bulma's lab blurred together, one long experiment after another, as she toiled relentlessly to create the perfect warriors. Her vision was clear, but the path to achieving it was riddled with obstacles. The process of manipulating DNA wasn't new to her—she had worked with cellular and genetic technologies before, but never on this scale. She was attempting to do what Dr. Gero had done, but without the madness or reckless disregard for life.
Each day, the machines hummed, the incubators pulsed with a soft glow, and within those sterile pods, new life began to take shape. The first generation of her fighters was a fragile experiment—too weak to withstand the power coursing through them. They tore themselves apart from the inside out, their bodies unable to handle the DNA from so many powerful beings. Their deaths weighed heavily on Bulma, though she couldn't afford to stop and grieve each failure. They weren't truly alive yet, she reminded herself. Not until she perfected the process.
The second and third generations were more promising. These warriors could withstand their power levels, but they lacked the intelligence and will to fight. They were little more than biological robots—strong, but ultimately useless if they couldn't make decisions or react strategically in battle. The fourth generation showed promise, but their aggressive tendencies were too dangerous. They couldn't be controlled, and one of them even escaped containment, wreaking havoc in the lab until Bulma had to destroy it herself.
It was a painful moment for her, standing over the lifeless body of one of her creations, knowing that she had come so close, yet still so far from success. Each failure brought a new wave of doubt. Was this truly the right path? Could she ever create something as powerful as she needed without crossing a moral line? But every time she thought of stopping, she would think of Trunks and Gohan, of the Androids' merciless rampage. She had no choice but to push forward.
As the years passed, Bulma's health continued to decline. Her body was breaking down, and her cough grew worse with every passing month. She would collapse in the lab, her hands clutching her chest, struggling to catch her breath, but as soon as the fit passed, she would force herself to keep working. The lab had become a tomb of sorts, where she buried herself in her work, determined that if she was going to die, it would be with the knowledge that she had tried everything to save the world.
By the time she reached the ninth generation, her warriors were nearly perfect. The strength of Frieza's DNA had given them unparalleled raw power, and the regenerative abilities from Piccolo's Namekian blood ensured that they could recover from injuries quickly. Gohan's DNA provided them with the potential for explosive growth, and from her own enhancements, she had integrated the human drive for survival and adaptability. Yet something was still missing—something crucial.
Their personalities remained erratic. Some of them were prone to violent, uncontrollable outbursts, while others remained cold and unfeeling, lacking the compassion and humanity that Bulma so desperately wanted them to have. They were either too aggressive or too indifferent, and that imbalance left them vulnerable. The Androids were ruthless, but they were also precise, calculated. Bulma needed fighters who could think strategically, who could adapt in battle as quickly as the Androids could.
But as she tinkered with the 10th generation—her last hope—she finally realized the missing element. It wasn't just about the DNA or their strength. They needed a guiding intelligence, something that could steer them toward the right path. And it couldn't be her. She knew her time was running out; she wouldn't be around to guide them when they finally faced the Androids.
So she did what she had always done best: she programmed. Using the vast resources of Capsule Corp.'s databases, she began building an AI system, modeled after her own intelligence. It would be a digital copy of herself, containing all her knowledge and strategies, with one singular purpose: to guide her creations in the battle against the Androids. The AI would not only teach them to harness their power but also instill in them the will to protect what remained of Earth.
The 10th generation took longer to develop. The technology had to be perfect, the DNA carefully calibrated, and the AI fully integrated into each warrior's mind. She infused each with the memories and instincts they would need to function in the world they were about to inherit. And with every new iteration, Bulma poured more of herself into the project, working with an intensity that pushed her body far beyond its limits.
By the time they were ready to be awakened, Bulma had lost track of how many years had passed. The Earth outside her lab was in even worse shape than when she had started. The atmosphere was toxic, the remaining cities completely deserted, and the few humans left had either gone into hiding or perished. The Androids were still out there, unchecked, their power as terrifying as ever.
The world needed saving now more than ever.
Bulma, now a shadow of her former self, stood before the incubators, looking at the sleeping forms of her final creations. They were perfect—stronger than even Gohan had been, faster than Piccolo, and with the potential to surpass Frieza's terrifying power. But would it be enough? She had given them everything she had. There was nothing left in her, no more ideas, no more experiments. Her body was failing her, and she knew this would be her last chance.
…
Bulma sat at her workbench, barely able to hold herself upright. Her body had betrayed her, the years of stress and sleepless nights finally catching up. Her hands shook as she worked, and every breath felt like it was being torn from her lungs. The cough had worsened to the point where she couldn't hide it anymore. Blood stained the sleeve of her lab coat, but she didn't care.
She glanced at her reflection in the cracked mirror on the wall. The woman staring back at her was a stranger. Her once vibrant blue hair was mostly gray now, her skin pale and gaunt. Dark circles hung beneath her eyes, and her frame was thin and frail. She was no longer the woman who had helped save the Earth time and again. She was simply an old scientist, desperately trying to finish her work before time ran out.
And it was running out. Fast.
Her heart raced as another fit of coughing wracked her body. Blood speckled the table, but she forced herself to stand. She had to see it through. She had to finish. There was no one else left to carry the torch. With trembling hands, she entered the final sequence into the mainframe, activating the awakening process for the 10th generation. The AI interface glowed softly, the digital version of herself coming online.
This was it. Her last hope.
The machines hummed, the incubators began to open, and the air was filled with the low hiss of pressurized seals releasing. One by one, her creations stirred to life, their eyes slowly opening. The AI would take over now. They wouldn't need her anymore. Her work was done.
As the light from the incubators bathed her in a soft glow, Bulma's legs gave out, and she collapsed onto the cold floor of her lab. Her breathing was shallow, and the room spun around her. But as she lay there, her vision fading, she felt a sense of peace. She had done everything she could. There was nothing left to give.
Her final thoughts drifted to Trunks. Would he be proud of her? Would he understand the sacrifices she made? She closed her eyes, the faces of her son and Gohan flashing before her. Maybe, just maybe, her creations would succeed where they had fallen. Maybe they would save the world.
As the darkness closed in, Bulma smiled weakly.
And then, the world went silent.
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