You lead Bulma up the stairwell, past the hum of ventition and the faint metallic tang of the ship's air recyclers. She keeps pace without compint, bag slung over one shoulder, eyes darting at every bulkhead door, every exposed cable, every detail that screams "military vessel" rather than "Capsule Corp b."

  The conference room is small, barely bigger than a standard office, tucked off a secondary corridor near the command deck. You push the hatch open. Inside: a long metal table bolted to the deck, six chairs, a bnk wall-mounted screen, and a single overhead light that flickers once before steadying. No windows. No decorations. Just function.

  You hold the door for her. She steps in, sets the duffel down with a soft thud, and immediately starts scanning the room like she's cataloging escape routes and potential tech.

  "Cozy," she mutters, pulling out a chair and dropping into it without invitation. "So. Brad. Ship. Magic. Zombies. Different universes. Start talking, because my brain is currently running at 300% capacity and I need data to keep it from exploding."

  You close the hatch behind you, take the seat across from her, and lean forward slightly, elbows on the table.

  "Short version first," you say. "This world got hit with zombies about two months ago. Magic showed up six months before that, no expnation, no warning. Then people started getting pulled here from other realities. Most we've met, arrive right near me. Most still alive, are women. Most are from worlds that exist as fiction in this one, anime, manga, games. You included. Dragon Ball. Capsule Corp. Dragon Radar. The whole deal."

  Bulma crosses her arms, leaning back. One eyebrow arches. "You're telling me I'm a cartoon character here?"

  "More like an ultra-celebrity. People know your name, your inventions, your family. Capsule Corp is legendary. The Dragon Ball stories are famous across the world. You said that you wished for the perfect boyfriend and he dropped you here, in most timelines you don't get to make that wish. Goku's shonen power generally overwhelmed everything."

  She freezes. Just for a second. "Goku?" Her voice is sharp now, analytical edge cutting through confusion. "Who's Goku?"

  You pause, studying her face. "...The kid who usually collects the Dragon Balls in the stories here. Alien species: Saiyan, monkey tail, transforms into a giant ape when looking at the full moon. Orange gi. Eats like a bck hole. Saves the world every Tuesday." No recognition. No flicker of memory.

  Bulma blinks once. Then twice. "Never heard of him." She leans back, arms crossing tighter. "In my world, there was no monkey-boy alien showing up to fight space monsters or whatever. I found the radar in my dad's b when I was five. Built a better one by eight. Tracked the balls myself. Minor monster problems, sure, but nothing world-ending. Got all seven. Made my wish. the dragon ughed, said 'granted,' and dropped me here. End of story."

  You nod slowly. "So your timeline never had Goku. No Saiyan invasion. No Piccolo Daimao. No Frieza. Just you, the radar, and a dragon with a sense of humor."

  She lets out a short, incredulous ugh. "That smug, scaly bastard. 'Your wish has been granted.' Yeah, real cute." She rubs her temples. "Okay. Fine. Alternate dimensions, isekai nonsense, zombie apocalypse. I've read worse sci-fi. But why you? Why always nding on you?"

  "Current best theory: I've got the most mana, that acts like a magnet for dimensional arrivals. Maybe because I'm the only one who can best stabilize people when they arrive. Maybe the universe just has a sick sense of humor. Either way, pattern holds. You showed up near enough, in front of me. Same as the others."

  Bulma leans forward now, elbows on the table, eyes narrowing. "Others. How many?"

  "Twenty-three in our current group, counting you. Mostly women, two male. All from different worlds. All... adjusted, in some way. Some with overall errors. Some with memories wiped. Some just confused and pissed off. Like you."

  She snorts. "Yeah, I'm definitely in the pissed-off category. But I'm also curious. You said magic. Show me."

  You extend your left hand, phone screen up. "I've set up a network," you expin, tapping the screen. "Converts the generators electricity into mana. I can redirect it into different effects. Like this."

  You trigger the Spellbook 3.5 enchantment tied to the phone. A low-level D&D 3.5 spell, Prestidigitation, activates harmlessly: a small, perfect sphere of light hovers above the dispy, slowly rotating, shifting colors from gold to soft blue.

  Bulma leans in so close her nose almost touches the screen. "That's... actual spellcasting. Structured, repeatable, interface-driven. You're running a magical OS on consumer hardware?"

  "Close enough. It's called the Enchantment Framework. I built it, or stumbled into it. Still figuring out the difference."

  She exhales sharply, eyes gleaming with that familiar Bulma hunger for understanding.

  "Okay. That's insane. And insanely useful. If I can get tools, materials, capsules would be ideal, but even basic electronics, I could probably reverse-engineer parts of this. Integrate it with my tech. Make something that doesn't need you as the only power source."

  She pauses, then fixes you with a very direct stare.

  "But first things first. The dragon sent me here. To you. That means either he's matchmaking, or he thinks you're the best candidate on this dead rock. So level with me, Brad. Are you actually boyfriend material, or am I stuck with another arrogant genius who thinks he's the center of the universe?"

  You meet her gaze evenly. "If you're wanting a perfect boyfriend, then I'll first warn you that I'm possessive. If you're mine, you're not getting away."

  You pat the table twice, inviting and insinuating. "Lay on the table and spread your legs. I'll let you determine if it's a half measure."

  Bulma freezes. Then she ughs, short and sharp.

  "You don't waste time, do you?" She studies you for a long minute.

  "Says the virgin girl who traveled around the world collecting mythological balls to make a magic wish for a perfect boyfriend..." You taunt.

  Bulma freezes mid-breath, violet eyes narrowing as your words nd.

  Then she bursts out ughing, sharp, genuine, head tipping back so her ponytail swings. "Oh my god," she gasps between breaths, wiping at the corner of one eye. "You did not just say that." She straightens, still chuckling, but the sound tapers into something more dangerous, amused, intrigued, and a little predatory.

  "Says the virgin girl who traveled around the world collecting mythological balls to make a wish for a perfect boyfriend..." She repeats it slowly, savoring every sylble, then fixes you with a look that could strip paint.

  "Touché, Brad. Touché." She pnts both feet on the floor, and leans forward until her elbows rest on the table, chin in her hands. The red dress shifts, neckline dipping just enough to remind you she's aware of exactly what she's doing.

  "But let's be real," she continues, voice dropping into that cssic Bulma register, confident, teasing, razor-sharp. "I didn't spend years dodging dinosaurs, climbing mountains, and outsmarting every greedy asshole with a gun just to wish for some generic Prince Charming. I wanted perfect. And Shenron, smug bastard that he is, apparently decided 'perfect' meant dropping me ass-first into zombie apocalypse harem central with a guy who can make magic glowy phone apps and owns a warship."

  She gestures vaguely at the room, the ship, you. "So yeah. I might still be a virgin, big whoop, I was busy inventing things that could end world hunger while you were probably jerking off to my figurines, but that doesn't mean I'm naive. I know exactly what kind of deal I'm looking at here."

  She stands, slow and deliberate, rounding the table until she's right beside your chair. One hand pnts on the backrest, the other braces on the table so she's leaning over you, close enough that you can smell whatever high-end shampoo she packed in that duffel.

  "Possessive, huh?" she murmurs, voice low, teasing. "If I'm yours, I'm not getting away?"

  Her free hand trails lightly down your chest, testing, not committing.

  "Then prove it isn't a half-measure, Mr. Center-of-the-Universe. Because if you're gonna cim me, you'd better make it worth ditching my entire timeline for."

  She straightens just enough to give you room, eyes locked on yours, challenge written in every line of her body.

  "Your move, Brad. Clock's ticking. Show me what 'perfect boyfriend' actually looks like when the world’s already ended."

  You turn to the bnk wall of the conference room and speak, voice low but clear, carrying both aloud and through the telepathy web. "Rika, conversation with the genius is going to take some time. Warn the navy that there are three helicopters incoming for nding, the Bell Venom and two Apaches. If they question the Apaches, tell them we're happy to discuss sale value."

  Rika's reply comes back instantly through the web, crisp and professional. "Copy. I'll handle the approach clearance. They'll probably want to talk asset transfer anyway. Let me know when you're done with the blue-haired one."

  You turn back to Bulma.

  She's still leaning against the table edge, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched in that cssic "prove it" expression. You rise slowly, closing the distance in one smooth step. Your hand finds the back of her neck, gentle but firm, and you pull her into the kiss.

  She meets you halfway.

  Her lips are soft, confident, tasting faintly of whatever mint lip gloss she had on before the dimensional trip. She sets the pace at first, testing, teasing, tongue flicking against yours in quick, challenging strokes, then yields just enough to let you deepen it. Her hands slide up your chest, fingers curling into your shirt as you turn her slowly, guiding her back until the table presses against the backs of her thighs.

  You break long enough to reach into inventory. Two thick bnkets appear in your hand, soft, dark gray, stored during the Eureka haul. You toss them onto the table behind her for padding. Bulma notices, lets out a short, amused huff against your mouth.

  "Prepared, huh?"

  "Whenever I can be."

  She leans back willingly, scooting up until she's seated fully on the table, legs parting to make room as you step between them. You keep kissing her, slow, deep, ciming, while your hands slide down to her boots. One at a time you grip them, as you use your inventory to store and immediately release each one. They drop to the deck with soft thuds. Bare feet now, toes curling slightly against the chill metal.

  Your fingers trail up her calves, slow and deliberate, feeling the smooth muscle under her skin. She shivers once, thighs tensing, but doesn't close them. When you reach the hem of her red dress you hook your fingers under the white ce panties and pull, slowly, pyfully, dragging the fabric down her thighs inch by inch. She lifts her hips to help, then lets you slide them the rest of the way off. You leave them hooked around one ankle, dangling like a trophy.

  Bulma's breathing has picked up, chest rising faster under the dress. She watches you with half-lidded eyes, lips parted, a mix of challenge and genuine curiosity.

  You step in closer, hands settling on her hips. You hold her gaze. "Possessive means that I value what's mine," you say quietly. "Any idiot can break something valuable."

  Your right hand slides down, settling gently over her pussy, palm ft, warm, unmoving at first. Just contact. Just cim. "I'm going to make you beg to be broken," you continue, voice low, "and then I'm going to refuse you."

  Her eyes fsh, equal parts arousal and indignation. "You-"

  You lower yourself slowly to your knees, cutting off her protest between her spread thighs. The table edge is high enough that she's at perfect height. You start with soft kisses along her inner thigh, light, teasing, working inward. When you reach her center you drag your tongue in one long, slow stroke from bottom to top, tasting her arousal. She gasps, hips jerking once.

  You don't rush.

  You work slowly, methodically, tongue circles her clit in zy patterns, gentle flicks, then firmer pressure, then back to soft ps. Two fingers slide along her slit, coating themselves in her wetness before pressing inside, slow, careful, stopping just short of her hymen. You curl them upward, stroking that sensitive ridge inside while your thumb takes over on her clit, rubbing in tight, steady circles.

  Bulma's hands find your hair, fingers threading tight. Her breathing turns ragged, short gasps, soft whimpers, the occasional sharp inhale when you hit just the right spot. You keep the rhythm even, never pushing her over, always pulling back right as her thighs start to tremble harder. Edging. Teasing. Exhausting her slowly.

  She tries to rock into your mouth, seeking more friction. You hold her hips still with your free hand.

  "Not yet," you murmur against her folds, breath hot on her skin. "Beg first."

  Bulma lets out a shaky ugh that turns into a moan when you suck lightly on her clit. "You're... evil," she manages, voice cracking. "I-I don't beg. I invent. I demand."

  You pull back just enough to speak, lips brushing her as you do. "Then demand."

  She tries, tries to order you, tries to bargain, but every time she opens her mouth you curl your fingers again or flick your tongue just right, and the words dissolve into gasps.

  Minutes stretch. Her thighs quiver constantly now. Her grip in your hair tightens to the point of pain. Her hips strain against your hold.

  Finally, voice hoarse, desperate, she breaks. "Please," she whispers. "Please let me come. Please- fuck, just- please."

  You smile against her. "Good girl."

  You give her what she needs, fingers curling hard, thumb pressing firm circles on her clit, tongue shing in quick, relentless strokes. She comes with a sharp cry, back arching off the table, thighs cmping around your head as her whole body locks and shudders. You work her through it, slow and steady, drawing out every wave until she colpses back, chest heaving, legs trembling.

  You rise slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

  Bulma stares up at you, flushed, wrecked, eyes gssy. "...okay," she breathes. "You're not a half-measure."

  She pushes herself up on her elbows, still shaking. "But next time? I want a turn on top. And tools. Lots of tools."

  You help her sit up fully, brushing sweat-damp hair from her face. "Deal."

  The conference room is quiet again, save for her slowing breaths and the distant thrum of the ship.

  Outside, the LARCs keep cycling. The RVs keep arriving. The world keeps turning.

  But right now, in this small metal room, Bulma Briefs just became yours.

  You slowly pull her panties back up, taking your time, trailing kisses along her inner thigh as the white ce slides over smooth skin, flushed skin. Your fingers trace the estic edge, checking for folds, making sure everything sits properly. She shivers once, still sensitive, still processing the slow burn you just put her through.

  You retrieve her boots from the floor and set them on the table beside her, within easy reach. She doesn't move to put them on yet, just sits there with her legs dangling, dress smoothed back down, breathing slowly returning to normal.

  "Your world's technological state was... aggravating to say the least," you begin, leaning against the table beside her. "Some of your world barely had working vehicles. Others had capsule technology that btantly defied this world's ws of physics. Pocket storage that viotes conservation of mass, miniaturized engines that shouldn't generate enough torque to move their own weight, energy systems with efficiency ratios that make perpetual motion look reasonable."

  Bulma huffs a short ugh, brushing hair from her face. "Yeah, well, when you grow up with dragon balls that grant wishes, physics gets... flexible."

  "Here, it doesn't," you say ftly. "Check the engine and maintenance rooms before you start asking for more tools. See what's avaible. Our current world is resetting its economy. No mass production. No supply chains. Only what we can salvage, steal, or enchant into existence. And even with magic, I can't just conjure precision tooling out of thin air."

  She nods slowly, analytical mind already cataloging what she saw on the way in, mentally mapping the ship's yout. "Okay. Fair. I'll start with inventory before I make demands."

  You turn to face her fully, expression serious. "Honestly, Bulma? You're a walking time bomb."

  Her eyebrows rise. "Excuse me?"

  "The others who've arrived," you continue, "have all been magic and combat. Desired for beauty, powers and fighting. Albedo, Asia Argento, Erza Scarlet, Yoruichi Shihōin, Kurumi Tokisaki. They're valuable, sure. But they're individuals. There are other fighters. Other mages. Other beautiful women."

  You pause, letting that sink in.

  "You're the first otherworlder, so far, that can represent a technological change. A revolution. Capsule Corp tech, even partially recreated, would reshape everything. Portable housing, vehicle storage, supply logistics, all solved. While that's great for us, it also means the second it gets public that The Bulma is here, on pnet, you'll probably be more hunted than I am."

  She opens her mouth, then closes it.

  "And I'm literally an infinite resource in the apocalypse," you finish quietly. "I can make or repce food, fuel, medicine, ammunition. I can heal people, reverse aging, sustain entire fleets. And there are still hostile factions within striking distance who want to capture or kill me. You, You'll have more."

  She stares at you for a long moment, violet eyes sharp, calcuting. "...shit," she mutters finally.

  "You're right. I'm not just another pretty face with a power set. I'm infrastructure. I'm supply-chain disruption. I'm the girl who can make infinite storage units and portable homes in a world that's literally starving for both." Then she exhales slowly and reaches for her boots.

  "Okay," she says, pulling the first one on. "So I stay quiet. Low profile. No fshy tech demos until we're ready to deal with the consequences."

  "At the very least," you agree, "use a pseudonym for the next year when you're dealing with anything off the ship."

  She ces the second boot, stands, adjusts her dress. "But when we are ready? I'm building something that'll make this whole mess a lot easier to survive."

  "I'm hoping for it," you reply.

  SnafuSam