Title: My Family, by Trunks Briefs
Disclaimer: These characters don’t belong to me. No money made, spent, or rolled in naked.
Warning: Yaoi, yuri, third grade, threesomes, OOC, weird humor, and suggestions of violence to closed-minded school teachers. No beta.
Summary: Trunks writes an essay, Bulma drinks hot chocolate, Vegeta is afraid five-year-olds, and Yamcha has fleas.
Pairing(s): Chichi/Bulma, Goku/Vegeta/Yamacha, Future Trunks/Gohan
NOTES: This fic was written in 2003, thus this is a repost.
Trunks deftly finished the last of his long division problems and turned the worksheet over, moving it to the corner of his desk just like his teacher had asked. Then, he pulled out a fresh piece of paper and began calculating the dimensions of his mother’s newly proposed motorbike design, doing an estimation of how it would affect its forward velocity and aerodynamic properties. He played with the numbers a while and produced several decent looking equations. He would have to compare notes with his mother later.
He put the paper safely in his bag and looked around to discover that most of his classmates were only half done with their work. At that point, he seriously considered beating his head against the desk in hopes the pain would help dull the overwhelming boredom, but he doubted the flimsy wooden thing could withstand such abuse.
Trunks had faced many evils in his life----his father being one of them---but none of them could compare to the sheer cruelty that was third grade.
His only consolation was that his best friend had to endure the suffering with him. Goten was four doors down from Trunks’ classroom, in the middle of a reading lesson with the rest of the second graders. If Trunks concentrated, he could feel Goten resisting the urge to gouge his eyes out as the class read another scintillating paragraph on Little Monster’s cooking skills.
Finally, the teacher stood from his desk and announced the end of the math lesson. Trunks passed forward his worksheet with the rest of the class and stared at his teacher with the glazed eyes of the mind numb.
The teacher placed the stack of gathered papers on his desk and picked up a fresh one. "Today’s writing lesson is going to be an essay about your family,” he explained, passing out the new papers. "Write about your parents, where they work, what they do there, what they like to do for fun. Like going to the movies or reading books. Tell me how many brothers and sisters you have.”
"What if you don’t have any brothers or sisters?” asked a boy with dirt smeared across his nose.
"Then don’t tell me about them,” said the teacher patiently, "I want to know about the family you do have. Maybe you can tell me about your favorite things to do with your family, like going to the park or the zoo.”
"But I don’t live with my parents,” said one of the girls "My aunt and uncle to take care of me.”
"So tell me about your aunt and uncle. Not everyone has the same type of family. Some children live with their grandparents or foster parents. Some families are very large, while others are really small. I want to know about your family and the people in it.”
Trunks accepted the assignment sheet with something approaching excitement. He liked talking about his family. Especially with the recent changes. The rules for the assignment were fairly straightforward; use complete sentences, your best handwriting, and make it at least one page long. Standard.
So, you want to know about *my* family?
With a grin, Trunks picked up his pencil and began to write.
Bulma hummed along with the radio and sipped hot cocoa as she read her e-mails for the day. At least ten were from Capsule Corp’s primary research team, most of them contradictory. There had been some sort of rivalry going on between the team’s leading scientists for sometime now, and while Bulma knew she should do something to put an end to it, she frankly found the various ways they were trying to undermine each other’s authority vastly entertaining. The pictures of Dr. Omaru with glowing neon pink hair were going to enjoy a special spot in her picture album for years to come.
The next twenty messages ranged from advertisements for penis enlargement to love letters from some of Capsule Corps less. . .stable clientele. She deleted them all without a second thought.
The twenty-first message displayed an all too familiar address.
"Damnit Trunks, what have you done this time?” Bulma muttered, opening the e-mail from Trunks and Goten’s Elementary School.
She scanned through it, expecting more of the same. Trunks had gotten better about his attitude problem and having Goten around helped to cut down on the fights, but that didn’t stop the occasional boredom-induced fits of chaos. If she weren’t so hell bent on raising him to be a successful, socially adjusted human adult---emphasize the human---she would throw him to Vegeta with orders to not bring him back until he was old enough to have a credit card.
About halfway through the message, Bulma realized that it wasn’t the standard note-from-the-teacher. For one thing, it was far too long and flowery. Trunks’ teachers had given up on that; their messages usually consisted of three lines amounting to "your son is a dick, at least try to do something about it.”
For another, it seemed to be referring to some assignment Trunks had turned in. Schoolwork was the one area where Trunks didn’t screw around. It was a source of pride for him; everything he did was perfect and to the letter. The possibility that he had turned in something inappropriate did not sit well with her.
It had to be from the new teacher that Trunks had gotten mid-school year when the old one went on maternity leave, she decided. Karoushi wasn’t it? Maybe he just wasn’t used to the high quality of Trunks’ schoolwork. It was probably nothing.
Bulma dithered for a while. Finally, she agreed to a parent-teacher meeting instead of writing the usual politely worded "fuck you”. Once that was sent and the original e-mail printing, she logged into the school database and checked over Karoushi’s schedule until she found an open Tuesday afternoon. The teacher himself had to be online because she received a date-confirmation only a few minutes after requesting that day for the meeting.
That done, Bulma heartlessly left the rest of the mail for her secretary to deal with, gathered up the print-out, and went to check up on the rest of her family.
Everyone was in the living room, watching a movie. Or at least part of a movie as Vegeta had full control of the remote and kept on rewinding the scene where the aliens blow-up Chikyuu’s major cities.
Bulma paused in the doorway to take in the sight.
Goten and chibi Trunks lay on their bellies on the floor, staring up the TV screen with matching expressions of slack jawed awe. Near them, Gohan was sprawled across the prone form of Mirai Trunks with his hands buried in his lover’s shoulder length hair. The future incarnation of her son was smiling in sleepy bliss at the attention. Bulma despaired of ever again getting his damn hair to a decent length.
Vegeta was seated in one corner of the massive couch, a look of intense satisfaction on his face from watching human cities go up in balls of fiery death. Or from having Yamcha face down in his lap. It was hard to tell. Goku sat on the other end of the couch with Yamcha’s feet on his thighs, diligently working his way through a bowl of popcorn. Lastly, Chichi was curled up in the armchair, eyeing Vegeta as if seriously considering her chances of survival if she tried to take the remote from him.
Bulma stepped further into the room and said in her best parental voice, "Trunks? Care to explain this?”
Both of her sons looked up at the sound of their name, but it was Trunks the younger who paled at the sight of the paper she held before her.
"I didn’t do anything, I swear!” he yelped automatically, to which the less mature members of the group---everyone but Chichi and the unconscious Yamcha---replied with disbelieving jeers. Trunks looked annoyed.
Goten rolled over onto his side. "Its true, Bulma. We’ve been really good all week.” The bright innocence of his voice and expression would have fooled a priest. Gohan let out a surprisingly bitter "Ha!” that had Goten smiling even more sweetly.
"It’s better to come clean to me now, you know,” Bulma said, "It’ll only be worse for you if I have to find out about it from the teacher.”
Trunks shook his head stubbornly. "I haven’t gotten into any fights or arguments with the teacher or caused any problems at school for a really long time. I mean it.”
Bulma was perfectly aware that a ‘really long time’ was probably no more than a week, if that. She sighed and knelt on the floor in front of him. "Trunks, this note isn’t about your behavior. It’s about something you gave to the teacher. Did you write something unacceptable for an assignment?”
More intense head shaking. "No! I followed all the directions for everything and didn’t use any bad language or anything like that. It’s all too easy to mess up on, anyway.” A hint of disgust entered his tone.
"Well, I’ve set up an appointment with the teacher for next Tuesday, so we can talk to him about it then,” Bulma said, "Don’t worry...*I’ll* get this problem straightened out.” The sudden fierceness of her voice made Trunks smile.
"I think I’ll come along too,” Chichi said, as Bulma walked over to join her in the armchair. "For emotional support, if nothing else. And so will Vegeta and Goku.”
"What?” demanded Vegeta flatly, glaring at her while Goku simply shrugged in acceptance. He was used to being dragged into things.
"He’s your son too,” said Chichi coldly, "You can’t just leave Bulma to do all the work.”
"What the boy does outside this house is of no concern to me.”
"He’s not some toy you can toss aside when you’re done with him!”
Vegeta bared his teeth. "If he needs to be punished, then I will punish him. I don’t need to listen to some human idiot drone on about what my son has been doing in that madhouse you call an education center.”
Vegeta had been leery about Trunks’ school ever since the time he was mauled by a horde of barbarian kindergarteners. Goku had been forced to wade into the kid pile at great risk to himself and free the snot and glitter smeared Saiyajin. Exactly why a bunch of human children found the Saiyajin no Ouji so appealing was beyond Bulma’s ken, but they’d certainly been tenacious in their adoration of him. Everyone---secretly---suspected that he’d been quite traumatized by the event.
"Vegeta?” Bulma chimed sweetly, resting her head on Chichi’s shoulder, "You’re going.”
Vegeta stared at her before turning back to the movie with a terse, "Fine.”
"Us too,” said Mirai Trunk, volunteering himself and Gohan in usual fashion.
"Let's all go,” Yamcha spoke up, lifting his head and rubbing at his eyes, "We can always go for a picnic and a swim afterwards. Make a day of it.” He smiled warmly at Vegeta who stroked a coarse thumb over his cheek.
The younger boys and Goku cheered at the suggestion. Bulma looked thoughtfully at Chichi who shrugged. "Sure, why not?”
Those who could fly did so, while those who couldn’t took an aircar over to the school. The entire traveling circus reached the mostly empty parking lot together and proceeded to scare the birds with a yelling match. Getting Vegeta to the school turned out a great deal easier than getting him inside of it. They spent some time failing to convince him that the ‘heathen alien spawn’ were gone for the day before Yamcha and Goku took him aside to have a whispered conference.
After the startled declaration of "a horse saddle?” that had Yamcha nodding and Goku beaming, Vegeta walked back to the two women much more complacent. Once that had been settled, another argument arose as to who *wasn’t* going in to the see the teacher. Most everyone had some reason or other for wanting to be apart of the meeting. Despite this, Bulma and Chichi were firm and in the end they left the rest of the family with the car (and its army-sized stock of picnic supplies) while they and Vegeta entered the school.
Karoushi-sensei was waiting for them in the hall outside of his classroom.
"Thank you for coming,” he said, bowing respectfully, "I am Karoushi Desuku, very pleased to meet you.” He was an unremarkable man; standing at average height, with dark hair and serious features on an otherwise young face.
"Briefs Bulma. Thank you for making the time to see us,” Bulma said just as politely, though her bow wasn’t as deep as his. "This is my partner Son Chichi and Trunks’ father, Vegeta.” Chichi dipped her torso at being introduced, but Vegeta just glared at the man, arms folded over his spandex clad chest.
Karoushi-sensei hesitated before bowing, but it was hard to say whether it was in surprise over Vegeta’s rudeness or confusion over Bulma’s introductions. He recovered his composure quickly and invited them into the classroom.
"Please, take a seat.” He motioned over to the two cafeteria chairs that were pulled up in front of his cluttered desk. He looked uneasily at Vegeta. "I’m sorry Mr. Briefs, if I had known there were going to be three of you, I would have brought another chair.”
"You will call me ‘Vegeta’,” he said stone-faced, the tone of his voice, making it clear that this was an order not a pleasantry, "The woman and I are not married.”
"Hey, I have a name, use it,” Bulma said. Vegeta snorted and came to stand next to her chair, looking very much like some looming bodyguard. Which was, really, why Bulma was so fond of dragging him around with her. Especially to board meetings. She smiled at the thought and folded her hands in her lap.
Karoushi started at the sudden shattering of his misconception. "Oh. Ah...oh.” He straightened his clothes nervously and looked around on his desk, as if trying to remember what to do next.
Nearing the end of her terminally short patience, Chichi proclaimed loudly, "Since we all know what to call each other now, let’s get on with the meeting!” She fixed her razor sharp gaze on the teacher.
"You!” she said so forcefully he actually jumped, "What’s this about Trunks school assignment?”
"Um, y-yes, the essay.” Swallowing a few times, Karoushi sat down his own wheeled chair and shifted through the papers on his desk before unearthing a stabled set. "The---ah, requirements for the uh, assignment were for Trunks to write an essay about his family.” Karoushi regained his former confidence as he spoke. "The essay was supposed to be factual, but Trunks’ essay, as you will see, is obviously make-believe.”
He offered up the papers and Bulma leaned forward to take them. The front page was filled with neat, exacting handwriting. Across the top it read "My Family, by Briefs Trunks”. On the line below that, Bulma was surprised to recognize the curving, interlocking letters of High Saiyajin-go. She looked up to Vegeta for translation.
"Son of Vegeta no Ouji of the Royal House of Vegetasei,” he said softly into her ear, the smug pride in his voice unmistakable.
Well, that just made his day, Bulma thought with her own burst of pleasure. Listening in, Chichi made a happy ‘awww’ and winked at Bulma.
Oblivious to the significance of the last Prince of the Saiyajin being able to write in his native tongue, Karoushi continued on blithely. "I was surprised by the scribbles”---Vegeta’s head snapped up---"he drew near the top, as I’ve never known Trunks to doodle on his work, but that’s not what really worries me.
"After I had the chance to review his work, I spoke privately with Trunks to see if he had understood the nature of the assignment. Most children like to tell stories, or exaggerate to make themselves look more interesting, so I wanted to make clear that the point of this essay was to be truthful. Trunks, however, was very insistent that everything in his paper *was* the truth. It is possible that he was lying for the sake of attention, but it left me was some strong concerns as to how he perceives reality. I was hoping that together we could. . .” he trailed off, going pale.
Vegeta was glaring at him. It was a glare that had been known to cause lesser beings to drop dead where they stood. Not out of fear so much as the conviction that they were going to die anyway and really, this was the least painful way to go about it.
Karoushi-sensei whimpered low in his throat and clutched at the arms of his chairs. "P-please ta-take a minute to, to, ah, read the ah ah. . .” He made a frantic motion with his hands, as if trying to pluck the word from wherever it was hiding. "Essay! The essay. Please.”
Under the pretext of reading the paper with her, Chichi leaned closer to Bulma and whispered, "Is this heading where I think it is?”
Bulma’s mouth tightened slightly. "I wouldn’t put money against it,” she said, focusing on the writing in front of her.
My Family, by Briefs Trunks
Son of Vegeta no Ouji of the Royal House of Vegetasei
I live with my family at the Capsule Corporation head quarters in Satan City. Our house is huge, which is good because there is a lot of us and we need the space. The walls are all soundproofed, too. This is even better.
My mother, Bulma, is the president of Capsule Corp. and rules with an iron fist. Many of the old executives and staff were stealing from the company when my grandfather ran it, but mom completely cleaned house. Our profit margin has risen by over 20% and our productivity is twice what it was.
Mom can be a little dramatic sometimes. Especially when I blow something up or stay out all week training or terrorize the city. Otherwise, she’s really fun to be around. She lets me help out with her inventions, tells the best stories, and even taught me how to drive a tank and use firearms. I asked her one time if she ever thought about ruling the world. She laughed and said "I already do.”
My father is Vegeta no Ouji, one of the two survivors of a race of aliens called Saiyajin. They were an incredibly powerful people and being a half-breed, I share that power. Papa is a prince and would have been king of his home world if some tyrant hadn’t fried the place. He originally came to Chikyuu to destroy it, but Goku, another Saiyajin and my best friend Goten’s father, kicked him around until he changed his mind.
Papa is very strong and smart and focused. Nothing is beyond his capabilities. He’s a little scary, too. The one time papa got a telemarketer call he tracked down the source and destroyed the building. He even let me and Goten come along. It was great fun.
He had a hard time growing up, so he’s not very good at saying what he means, but I’ve learned to hear him anyways. And I know that he is a lot happier now that he’s gotten together with Yamcha and Goku.
Way back before I was born, Yamcha was my mother’s boyfriend. That didn’t last, obviously, but they stayed close. A couple years ago, Yamcha lost his apartment and came to stay at Capsule Corp. for a while. He’s kind of flighty and downright annoying at times, but for the most part he’s just...nice. For some reason, my dad started following him around the complex. It when on for weeks, until one day papa cornered him in the gym and several hours later, they came out half-naked and covered in bite marks. The next day, Yamcha moved into papa’s rooms and hasn’t stopped smiling since.
Goku, like I mentioned earlier, is the other full-blooded Saiyajin and he and papa have known each other since forever. Papa has spent most of that time trying to turn Goku into a greasy smear on the ground. Which is kind of useless, because Goku’s died a couple times already and that hasn’t stopped him yet. He is the most powerful person in the universe (several gods have told us so) and has saved the world countless times. He’s also an idiot.
Not long after he came back to life this last time, his wife, Chichi, fell in love with my mom and they decided to go steady. Goku didn’t care much about losing a wife, but he threw all kinds of fits over losing a cook. Cooks after all, should be worshiped and Chichi is one of the best. So when Chichi moved in with us, Goku came with her.
I don’t know how he ended up with papa and Yamcha-papa---Goten thinks he just walked in on them one night and never bothered to leave.
Goten and Gohan are Goku’s sons. Gohan is the oldest and totally cool expect for that weird superhero thing. He used to have his own apartment and a girlfriend. Then Mirai Trunks showed up.
Mirai Tunks comes from an alternate future timeline, where everybody is dead. Genetically speaking, we are the same person but our personalities are completely different. He’s also years older than me. Mirai is like my father in a lot of ways. I used to be so jealous of him because he and papa had this understanding that I wasn’t a part of. Then Goku said how sad it was for Trunks growing up without a father, how hard it had been for him to lose everyone he cared about. I wasn’t as jealous after that.
And Mirai let me play with his sword. It was awesome.
Anyway, Mirai Trunks had come to stay in our dimension permanently because his mother had died. When he and Gohan saw each other, they both got this strange, sparkly look in their eyes. They so obviously wanted to be boyfriends, but Gohan still had Videl and was all wishy-washy about dumping her. He can be such a dork sometimes. Trunks spent weeks going around sighing "Gohan-sensei” until papa snarled at him to either shut-up or do something about it.
Gohan moved in a week later.
Goten is Gohan’s little brother and the best person alive. Goten’s a demi-saiyajin just like me, though not as strong of course, and I’ve known him since he was a baby. Even when he’s not there, I can feel him in the back of my head, like a piece of light I always carry with me. He’s warm and open and happy, and really wicked underneath it all. We get into all kinds of trouble together. Just yesterday we went flying all over the shopping center and Gohan nearly had a coronary trying to catch us. We love to do stuff like that. Fighting is neat too, but only when it’s for practice. Fighting to save the world isn’t nearly as much fun.
My family is big and more than a little crazy. I couldn’t ask for anything better.
Karoushi Desuku was a good teacher with set ideas about how things were supposed to be. He liked his job and had a strong understanding of books that talked about children.
When reading Trunks’ essay, Karoushi had been amused by the first paragraph, interested by the second, and wary of the third. By the fourth, he had stopped reading.
Oh, he’s eyes were still transmuting the words to his brain, but from there they were being routed straight into the ‘bullshit’ pile. Much like when he read fairy tales or articles on investment banking. He had, at most, caught one word in ten and so the entire point of the essay, not to mention some of the more interesting details, had completely passed him by.
The blatant and overwhelming indications of homosexuality were almost worse, in his mind, than Trunks honestly claiming to be able to fly.
Now he sat in his thinly padded chair and tried not to squirm under the sharp eyes of Trunks’ father. After meeting the man, Karoushi could see why Trunks liked to imagine he was a prince. Vegeta held himself like royalty, the form fitting blue spandex he wore outlining thick muscles and somehow managing to look regal rather than unspeakably tacky.
Of course, he also reminded Karoushi of the homicidal maniacs he saw on the news sometimes. There was something about his eyes...
As if hearing Karoushi’s thoughts, the shorter man began grinning. Karoushi squeezed his legs together and wondered if he could excuse himself to go to the bathroom.
Wiping sweat from the back of his neck, he watched as Mrs. Son and Mrs. Briefs leaned close over the paper, foreheads nearly touching. They were quite close for business associates. No wonder Trunks was...confused about the nature of their relationship.
He found himself having a hard time deciphering their reactions. Mrs. Briefs especially was looking far more teary-eyed than he’d expected. Most parents looked baffled or angry when presented with evidence that their child was lying and making up stories. He’d never dealt with parents who were, well, ‘touched’ by it.
Just then, Mrs. Son let out a furious squawk. "What the hell? Why that pastel-haired little dirt-sucker!”
Karoushi grimaced and raised his hand in preparation to calm the oncoming fit. Uh oh, he thought, she must have gotten to the part where...
"He passed me off as the cook! Is that all I am to him?!”
Vegeta glanced out the window. "What’s that noise?”
A bored Saiyajin is a deadly thing.
Five bored Saiyajin had some of the more high-strung deities getting ready for the end of the universe.
Yamcha sighed and leaned back against the car between Goku’s parted thighs. Powerful hands were combing gently through his thick hair, the blunt fingertips massaging his scalp with each loving pet. Yamcha smiled slightly and knocked one Siayjin off his ‘boredom count’. Playing---or grooming, or sniffing, or whatever Vegeta called it----with Yamcha’s hair could easily keep Goku entertained for hours. Unless he got hungry. Then it was no contest.
The other four were not so easily distracted.
Gohan and Mirai Trunks had commandeered someone else’s car and covered its hood with open books and diagrams filled with insanely complicated academic babble. Half of it was plans for future Capsule Corp. products, the rest was Gohan’s schoolwork. The whole mess of it had been brought along in hopes of keeping them occupied. Trunks, however, was less of a reader and more of a doer. Once he’d gotten the general gist of the design schematics, he wanted to take them from the "in theory” stage to the "look at that sucker go” stage. Now he was eyeballing the other cars as a potential source of parts. Gohan, for his part, kept on nodding off in the middle of his reading. Every once in a while, Trunks would reach over and do something to his tail to wake him up again.
The small ones were the worst off; sitting side-by-side on a planter box and despondently carving dirty words into the asphalt. Yamcha gave them another ten minutes before they started blowing stuff up.
"Uh oh,” Goku said and plucked something from Yamcha’s hair. "Puar needs to be flea dipped again.”
Yamcha twisted around in time to see Goku flick something from his fingers that screamed a tiny "eeeeee!” all the way down.
"Oh, gross! I warned him to keep up on that.”
Being of human-level intelligence, and a cat, Puar usually attended to his own hygienic needs, but he hated the complete soakage required for flea dips. Which would have been all right except that Puar’s favorite place to sleep happened to be wrapped around Yamcha’s head. Vegeta was trying to break this habit via wall therapy, but the shapeshifter was turning out to be surprisingly single-minded.
"We can wash him tomorrow,” Goku promised cheerfully, leaning closer to give Yamcha’s hair a more thorough investigation. He paused, head tilted to the side. "Hey, you hear that? Some kind of music. . . "
Yamcha rolled his eyes. Goku never could keep track of other people’s limitations. "No, of course not. What direction is it coming from?”
Goku turned his head from one side to the other before pointing off to the right. Yamcha noticed that the kids had heard something too, lifting their heads almost in unison.
"It’s heading this way,” Gohan said softly, letting his book fall closed. Like a pack of hunting dogs, the five warriors waited, tense and listening, for their quarry. Yamcha wondered what would happen if he threw a stick for them.
Minutes passed and then Yamcha heard it too; a deep rhythmic thumping. Soon, this was joined by a wavering wail and a disjointed clattering.
Almost twenty minutes later, the car came into view.
It was an older ground model, not at all flight capable, the paint flaking away and rusting in patches. The whole thing vibrated with the force of the music coming from inside. Some sort of gray film covered the windows, making it impossible to see through them. A little white-faced doll was strapped to the antenna and flopped back and forth with the motion of the car.
Even from down the street, Yamcha could feel the pounding of the bass in his bones. The Saiyajin had their ears covered, faces twisted up with pain. Yamcha could only imagine how torturous this was for them.
"Dad, can I can blast it?” Goten yelled hopefully at his father. Goku’s grimace deepened and he shook his head.
"It’ll be gone in a second,” yelled Goku reassuringly.
The car bounced its way down the road, the sheer volume of sound rendering anything resembling lyrics incomprehensible. Then, with squealing undertones, the beast began to slow and pull off alongside the curb. It came to a stop. Everyone looked at Goku.
"Well, they have to turn the car off eventually,” he said in the same confident tone. "Just be patient.”
The car door opened, emitting a thick cloud of smoke like the belch of some great dragon. A wild haired young man appeared through the haze. Then a woman, then more. Ten people in all, with a mean look to them. They arranged themselves around the car, bouncing and moving in time with the music, laughing and shouting to each other over it.
The sound neither ended nor diminished.
Everyone looked again at Goku. He shrugged helplessly and pressed his hands tighter to his ears.
"That’s it, I’m gutting them,” Mirai Trunks said, pulling his sword from its sheath in one slick motion and moving forward purposefully. He reached the sidewalk before turning around to stare at Gohan in puzzlement. "You’re not stopping me?”
"I suppose I should,” Gohan sighed, "Wait, stop. Don’t harm those innocent people,” he intoned with less than the usual Superhero dramatics.
Trunks stared at him, shrugged, and started walking again. Goten and Chibi Trunks shamelessly cheered him on.
Yamcha prodded Goku in the thigh. "We should take care of this before there’s a slaughter.”
Goku nodded and Yamcha moved out of his way so his could hop off the aircar.
"I’ll just ask them to turn it down,” he said reasonably, pausing long enough to plant a kiss on Yamcha’s shoulder. He ambled easily across the parking lot, sending Trunks back to the rest of the family while he was at it, much to the younger man’s disgust.
“Dad does know that’s a gang, right?” Gohan asked.
"I doubt it,” said Yamcha, settling back to watch the show.
Chichi took several deep breaths, not to calm herself, but to make sure she would have enough oxygen for when she started screaming. Her slight irritation over being regarded as nothing more than a good cook---and really, she couldn’t blame Trunks too hard, it wasn’t like he’d had many other experiences with her---was more than surpassed by her fury at this man.
Now, if Karoushi-sensei’s only complaint was with the admittedly bizarre realities of aliens and people who come back from the dead, then Chichi would consider forgiving him. While she personally found it impossible for someone who’d lived in this city for more than a week to hold onto such views, one must be sympathetic to the slow minded. However, if he said anything the least bit derogatory about her family, she would tear out his throat with her bare teeth.
Assuming Vegeta didn’t get there first.
Noticing her agitation, Bulma patted her wrist soothingly. The blue haired woman set her son’s essay on the edge of Karoushi’s desk and regarded the man seriously. "I’m sorry, Mr. Karoushi, but I don’t see the problem.”
Like a glacier moving across the icy tundra, so did confusion and doubt pass over his face. He stuttered out several half-formed sentences before stopping himself to gather his thoughts properly. Obviously not too bright, Chichi thought. She was beginning to have some serious misgivings about the public school system.
"Mrs. Briefs,” Mr. Karoushi said cautiously, "You would honestly tell me that there is nothing in Trunks’ paper that upsets you?”
"Nothing at all,” she assured him, with all the pose that made her one of the most powerful businessmen in the world, "In fact, I’m quite relieved. Trunks knows that his home life is considered unorthodox and I’ve always feared that it would cause him undue stress. This,” she tapped the paper, "Proves that he is comfortable enough with it to share it with others.”
"You’re right!” Chichi said, swinging from borderline homicidal to cheerful with her usual ease, "I hadn’t thought of that.”
She knew, and accepted, that Gohan kept his private life just that; private. Not from fear of ridicule from his fellow classmates, but simply because it wasn’t any of their business. It wasn’t like he interacted with them that much to begin with and Chichi couldn’t care less as long as he kept his grades up. The same was true for Goten. But reading Trunks’ innocently worded rendition of his less-than-socially-acceptable family gave Chichi a warm, fuzzy feeling. She only hoped her future grandchildren were as open-minded.
(It should be noted that her eldest son being gay---and her youngest son’s intentions to marry his best friend---had not dented her plans to see them siring offspring in the slightest. After all, she’d spent seventeen years with a man and bore him two children despite her preference for other women. Gohan would make her a grandmother if she had to hogtie him to do it.)
"What’s this?” Vegeta snapped, suddenly focusing on the conversation. "The brat doesn’t have anything to complain about.”
"And His Highness finally decides to contribute,” Chichi muttered quietly. Mr. Karoushi frowned in serious offense.
"Mr. Vegeta, your son claims that, not only are you the prince of a dead race,” the teacher said flatly, "But that you are involved in a...physical...relationship with two other men.”
"Yes, and?” Vegeta said, his voice going dark.
Karoushi shivered involuntarily, but determinedly plowed onward. "So you admit to being engaged in a polyamorous homosexual relationship?” he said in a challenging tone.
Vegeta opened his mouth to respond, then stopped and looked questioningly at Bulma.
"Yes, you are,” she said, amused.
"Yes, I am,” Vegeta said to Karoushi, then to Bulma in scornful amazement, "You idiots actually have *words* for it?”
"And are you honestly telling me that you have allowed Trunks to believe you are some sort of ‘alien royalty’?” Karoushi demanded before Bulma or Chichi could say anything. The man was sounding both horrified and no little disgusted at this point, causing him to overcoming the fear Vegeta’s presence tended to inspire.
"Allowed?” Vegeta snarled hotly, "I’ve educated the boy in his heritage since he could toddle. The same for my bond-sons. I would never permit any child of the House of Vegeta to be raised without such knowledge.”
Mr. Karoushi’s mouth thinned into a tight line. "Mr. Vegeta, Mrs. Son, my I ask you to please leave the classroom? I wish to speak privately with Mrs. Briefs.”
Chichi decided instantly that she didn’t like the closed look on Karoushi’s face. She glanced at her lover to see a similar coldness settle over Bulma’s features. Vegeta curled his lip slightly and remained unmoving as a mountain. Several tense, silent minutes passed and Karoushi’s expression began to give way to slight desperation.
Finally, Bulma said in a chill voice, "Could you two wait in the hall for me? This shouldn’t take too long.”
"You sure?” Chichi asked, suspecting that she was going to miss her chance to rip this guy a new one. Maybe she should reconsider having Goten home-schooled.
Bulma gave a short nod.
Chichi squeezed her shoulder affectionately and stood. "It was a pleasure speaking with you, Karoushi-san,” she intoned with measured politeness, "Lets go, your lordship,” she continued with more strength as she grabbed onto Vegeta’s upper arm. With a disgusted snort, the Saiyajin followed her out the door.
In the hall, Vegeta leaned against the far wall with deceptive casualness. Chichi could see his simmering anger in the way his thigh muscles kept flexing and bunching. For once, Chichi was in perfect agreement with his agitation. While they didn’t necessarily like each other, they did have an understanding. She knew that he was as devoted to her children as she was to his and he knew that Super-Saiyajin or not, she’d make him regret it if he hurt Goku in any way, shape, or form. Neither tolerated any suggestion of offense toward their mutual loved ones.
Letting out huff, Chichi tapped her foot impatiently and strained to hear the faint murmurs coming from the classroom.
Time passed. From the growing black rage on Vegeta’s face, the conversation was not going well. Eventually, even Chichi heard a clear "Thank you for your time, Karoushi-san.”
Moments later, Bulma pushed open the door, wearing the same iron hard mask of professionalism Chichi had seen when attending shareholder meetings that could make or break the future of Capsule Corp.
Lifting eyes that burned like the blue heart of a gas flame, Bulma said softly, "Your turn, Vegeta.”
He smiled. Right then, Chichi was reminded why her ex-husband had once feared this man.
Bulma moved out of the prince’s way and took Chichi’s hand.
"Come my love, we don’t need to hear this.”
"I take it his opinions were less than complimentary,” Chichi asked dryly as they fell in step.
"To say the least,” Bulma said sardonically, her tight expression relaxing somewhat. "I’d understand if he didn’t believe the rest, but the things he said about----" she cut off and shook her head, sucking in a deep breath. "I don’t want to talk about it right now. I just want to spend the day at the beach with my boys and forget this ever happened.”
A frightened wail echoed down the corridor.
Bulma smiled faintly. "Lord but I love that man.”
Upon walking out the school’s front entrance, the two women were greeted with a most unexpected sight.
Several adolescents and young adults in dark, baggy clothing with matching jackets now occupied the parking lot.
Three of them were in the middle of a card game with Goten and Trunks the younger and appeared to be losing badly. Four others were cheering Yamcha and Gohan on through a martial arts demonstration. Two more and Mirai Trunks were visible from the waist down under a beat up old car. From the various tools and parts scattered around them, they were doing some extensive -- and possible illegal -- modifications to the old hunk. Someone had dug a fire pit into the cement and Goku was roasting something suspiciously dog-like over the flames, while the last strange youth lounged in the doorway of *Bulma’s* aircar, smoking and nodding his head in time with the rock music coming from inside.
"Or,” Chichi said mildly, "We could leave them to fend for themselves and have a quiet lunch in a nearby café instead.”
They looked at each other and, with joint sighs of defeat, go to join the chaos.
End! Thank you for reading.