Just a little light-hearted piece that takes place about a year before the events of Dragon Ball Z. Enjoy!

With the remnants of his cigarette dangling under his hairy upper lip, Dr. Briefs flipped the newspaper over, spilling the collection of ashes it contained into his lap. He ignored it though, his eyes glazing over the horoscope and skimming over the comics section. He chewed at the cigarette butt between his yellowed teeth, finally letting it fall from his mouth to the ground as he folded the paper up in defeat.

His younger, blond-haired wife looked up from her crocheting to see him place the paper on the coffee table across from him. While she was sitting upright on their sofa, he had been leaning forward in his favorite armchair intently, his feet flat on the ground as he scanned the paper for that one article his daughter had promised him. "What's wrong, sweetie?" she asked in her high-pitched voice, her squinted eyes searching for what could be the cause of his frustration. She watched as he pushed his shaggy, blue hair out of his eyes and readjusted his glasses, pulling another cigarette and a lighter out of his lab coat pocket.

"Bulma had said that there would be an article in today's paper over our newest prototype," he sighed, fumbling with the lighter as he lodged the new stick between his lips. He ran his fingers over it a few times before finally getting it to light, with which he set the thin, folded paper in his mouth on fire. It smoldered, more ashes falling on his white lab coat, though he didn't mind. What did bother him was that the paper didn't contain that article. It had been his daughter's invention being showcased, and he wanted to see her face on the cover of that newspaper.

Mrs. Briefs dropped the knitting needles in her lap and leaned forward, snatching the paper off of the coffee table. Then, after scanning the front page, she handed it back to her husband and said, "Honey, this is last Thursday's paper."

The scientist grabbed it back from her, peering through his wide-rimmed glasses at the date. "Oh!" he exclaimed, tossing it back on the table as he stood up, letting the cinders in his lap fall to the floor. "You're right!" He shuffled across the room and exited through the front door. His wife turned her attention back to the scarf she was crocheting, a dark blue to complement her daughter's bright hair. She held it before her proudly, only half-way through the process of making it. She was more of a gardener than a knitter, though, and so she felt that this deserved some recognition. Her little Bulma would look so adorable in it, she was certain.

She began working on it again, about to start a new row when the front door opened again, revealing a rather sheepish Dr. Briefs with the day's newspaper furled up under his arm. He moved back to his armchair and wiped off any cigarette ashes before resuming his seat in it. Then he chuckled triumphantly as he unfolded the newspaper, holding it out before him with two hands. Right on the front cover, at the bottom of the page, was a picture of his only daughter holding a small capsule in her hands.

His wife extended her neck, looking at her picture as he flashed it in her direction. "Oh, doesn't Bulma look so pretty in that picture?" She smiled, her eyes shut with her joy. She held her hand up to her mouth as she tittered a little, asking, "What did she come up with this time?"

Dr. Briefs placed the newspaper on the coffee table, and with his cigarette now in his hand, he leaned back and puffed, "She came up with an ingenious idea, if I do say so myself. It was only a few months ago, when she was complaining about not being able to take her computer with her to that island she's always visiting. So, she came up with a novel solution to it! Why not stick a computer in a capsule? Of course, I could have beat myself over the head for not thinking of it. A portable computer is an amazing and revolutionary idea!" He smiled, proud that his daughter had thought of something he had never dreamed of, something so out-of-this world that even he hadn't thought of it. "I think she's calling it a Comp-in-a-Cap, though the name isn't official yet. That's just what she told me."

He placed the cigarette back in his mouth, not minding as a few more ashes found their way in his lap. Mrs. Briefs set her handiwork aside to lean forward, grabbing the newspaper once more. She held it up, her face falling in dismay as she said, "Sometimes I worry about her." She primped her short, curly hair a little, staring at the picture of her daughter a little while longer. "She's always so focused on this technological stuff, I don't know if she'll ever settle down."

"What about that nice Yamcha boy?" Dr. Briefs asked, bristling his grey moustache as he rested his elbow on the arm of the chair.

She set the wrinkled newspaper in her lap, smoothing it out with a brush of her hand as she explained, "But she never talks about getting married to him. She acts as if she's never going to get married to him, as if she's waiting for somebody else." The distress she felt was evident as she turned to her husband, a small pout of worry on her face. "She's getting old, and I'm afraid she'll never marry."

"She's only twenty-six," the scientist pointed out, sure that his wife was exaggerating. He hadn't gotten married until his early thirties, though he supposed that women were different. They were always looking to start families early in life, as if they didn't have another forty, fifty years to live.

"Exactly," Mrs. Briefs stated, as if this fact only further supported her qualms. "You know, I want to have grandkids one day, and I'm already old. I don't want to be too old to not take care of them." Though before her husband could assure her otherwise, reminding her that she was in excellent shape at the moment, she continued in a more enthusiastic tone, "I've even decided on a cute boy's name, if she did have a son."

"Oh?" her husband asked curiously. She had never been able to pick out a boy's name when she had been pregnant, insisting that they would have a girl. Of course, a woman's instincts were always right, as he found out in the hospital later on. Or, if she had decided on one, she had never confided it in him with the confidence that they would have a daughter. He himself thought that Chris was a good name, a respectable name, but he knew he would never have say in the matter. It was always the mothers, usually forced by their mothers, sometimes even forced by their mothers, who had the privilege of naming the child.

Mrs. Briefs clasped her hands together, her joy returning as she proclaimed, "I think Trunks is a lovely name! I've been thinking about it for a while now, and I think she'll love it!"

The scientist took his cigarette out of his mouth, letting a few cinders tumble to the floor as he wondered if Bulma had ever forgiven her mother for naming her after underwear. She had been fine with the name until her first day of school, after which the sensitive girl came home, crying. When asked what was wrong, she had complained that she had endured teasing all day for her name, something that, to his knowledge, she had never let her mother forget. Though he supposed that women knew each other better than men knew them, so if his wife insisted that their daughter would love the name, he could do nothing but go along with it.

It was then that Scratch jumped up on the back of the large armchair, having just taken her early mid-morning nap on their bed. The tiny, black cat arched her back and meowed softly, calling for the scientist to, after putting his cigarette back in his mouth, pick her up with his calloused hands. He stroked the cat's rough fur with his fingertips before placing her on his shoulder. He continued to pet her, letting her rub up against his moustache as he faced her, until she settled down on his shoulder. She padded out a spot on his shoulder and laid back down, taking her late mid-morning nap as he sat there.

Dr. Briefs looked back at his wife, whose eyes were squinted in a fashion that suggested she had been struck by lightening, the shock on her face so imminent it scared the scientist. But her expression died down a little as she looked at Scratch, suggesting, "Let's get Scratch a cat friend! Then they can have kids!"

"What?" the scientist spluttered, darting his eyes back to the innocent cat perched on his shoulder. It was a ridiculous proposition, one that even he, the eccentric scientist that owned the largest business in the world, couldn't take seriously. He was open to a lot of ideas, but his little Scratch having kittens? That was certainly a new one.

"Well, it doesn't look as if we'll get grandkids any other way," his wife reasoned, and he could only nod a little, unable to get over the thought of Scratch being a mother. Bulma was independent, but she still had a lot of life ahead of her. It was too early for them to give up hopes yet. But the idea of his little Scratch having kittens scared him. He couldn't imagine her making the leap from child to mother so quickly.

"What would you name her kittens?" Dr. Briefs dared to ask, his grey moustache still bristling from the thought of his Scratch, the Scratch on his shoulder, having kittens. "Would you call one of them Trunks?"

His wife only laughed, "No, no, of course not! Trunks is a silly name for a cat!" The scientist furrowed his bushy eyebrows, not seeing what was so funny about that idea. Surely cats and humans could have interchangeable names. But she waved her hand to dismiss the thought, saying, "I was thinking more along the lines of Chris. That's a nice name!"

Dr. Briefs only bobbed his head, dazed by the thought of Scratch having kittens. His Scratch with five, six kittens following her around? The idea was inconceivable. Yes, he could handle being a grandfather, but a grandcat? What an absurd idea!