The afternoon sun bathed West City in warmth as Onigiri strolled beside Bulma, his inhibitor rings clinking softly with each step. Despite their weight, he carried himself with ease now—used to the resistance, though it still tugged at every movement. Bulma walked beside him with a chipper pace, holding a small clipboard and a Capsule case.
They were on a routine errand: picking up specialized materials for a Capsule Corp project from a supplier in the industrial district. Bulma insisted Onigiri tag along—not just for muscle, but because she "needed a break from lab air and grumpy technicians."
"You know, you could try smiling once in a while, maybe relax for once." Bulma teased, giving him a sideways glance.
Onigiri blinked at her. "But I am relaxed."
"That's your relaxed face?" she deadpanned. "Yeesh."
Despite herself, she smiled. He was different—but she liked that about him. He made her feel safer. Calmer. Like there was nothing in the world they couldn't handle.
As they turned down a narrow alley shortcut toward the supplier's warehouse, four figures stepped into their path. Rough-looking men in patched jackets, with bats and pipes in hand. One of them grinned, missing teeth.
"Well, well," the leader sneered. "Capsule Corp's little princess and her bodyguard. What brings you down here, sweetheart?"
Bulma sighed, arms crossed. "Seriously? Street thugs? Still a thing?"
"We're just looking for donations," one of them said, smacking his bat against his palm.
Onigiri stepped forward without a word, placing himself between Bulma and the gang.
But Bulma raised her hand slightly, stepping beside him. "Hey, look," she said, keeping her tone measured. "We don't want any trouble. We're just passing through—why don't you take the tough guy act somewhere else before someone gets hurt?"
One of the thugs sneered and stepped toward her. "Maybe you should shut that mouth before I shut it for you." He raised a hand to slap her.
Time slowed.
Onigiri moved.
In an instant, he was there—his hand wrapped around the thug's wrist mid-swing. He didn't squeeze, didn't twist. Just stopped it.
Snap.
The man's eyes went wide in agony as his wrist gave out under the pressure. He dropped to his knees, howling.
"You're dead for that!" the leader roared, charging forward with a metal bat raised high.
Onigiri blinked, stunned at the reaction. He hadn't even done anything.
But he narrowed his eyes slightly, focusing on the leaders movements. Their swings were wide, clumsy—almost laughably slow to his senses. Time seemed to stretch. They weren't fighters. They weren't even fast.
He stepped forward with real speed, at first—just a testing stride—but quickly realized how off-balance the fight was. The thugs may as well have been frozen in place. If he moved at full speed, they wouldn't even see it.
So he held back.
The leader lunged.
Onigiri twisted his hip and flicked his arm forward—barely any power behind it, more like brushing someone aside than throwing a punch.
But the moment his fist connected, it was like a semi-truck had collided with the thug's stomach. The air left the man's lungs in a single, pitiful gasp before he launched backward, flying through the air like a ragdoll and crashing into a dumpster with a metallic clang that echoed down the alley.
The third attacker hesitated, then tried to blindside him with a punch to the side. Onigiri pivoted and shoved him gently—just a nudge. The man flew into the alley wall and collapsed like a sack of bricks. The man screamed and crumpled to the ground.
The last one froze, backing away in terror.
But Onigiri turned his head just in time to see the leader of this group of thugs—the one from the dumpster—staggering to his feet, rage in his eyes, and rushing him from behind with a jagged blade.
ZZZAAAAAPP!
The attacker seized up mid-lunge as a bright arc of electricity shot through his body. He spasmed violently before collapsing, unconscious, smoke rising from his twitching limbs. Behind his now limp body was Bulma, holding a strange silver device.
"Prototype handheld shock cannon," she said casually, giving the sparking barrel an affectionate shake. "Dad wouldn't make me a blaster, so I built my own."
She tucked it back into her utility belt, grinning to herself. "First real field test. And it worked like a charm."
The device was sleek and compact—gunmetal gray with a trigger on the underside and a glowing capacitor core in the center. She'd designed it with a high-voltage capacitor burst, enough to drop a grown man in one hit. Of course, she'd never actually planned on using it.
Until now.
Onigiri looked down at the unconscious men—two moaning, one twitching, and the last with smoke still rising from his jacket. One of them had a look of pure terror frozen on his unconscious face.
He hadn't even tried to go all-out.
"…I didn't mean to hurt them that badly," he muttered.
Bulma stepped beside him, placing a hand gently on his arm.
"I know," she said. "But this is why you train, right? So you don't have to hurt people by accident."
He looked at her, uncertain. "What if I can't stop it?"
She met his gaze with surprising calm. "Then we'll figure it out together."
Sirens began to wail in the distance.
Bulma popped open a Capsule and tossed it to the ground, deploying a sleek hover bike.
"Let's get out of here before the cops ask why three guys are twitching in a pile of regret."
As they zoomed off into the cityscape, Onigiri sat behind her in silence, his mind replaying the scene over and over.
Too much strength. Too little control.
And then—
A flash.
Not of the alley. Not of West City.
He was small—an infant, cradled in strong arms under a blood-red sky. The ground beneath was scorched, bodies strewn across a battlefield. A towering figure stood above him: a man who radiated authority. Perhaps his father, armored and furious, fists dripping with blood.
A visage of a person lay broken at his feet, twitching, gasping for air through shattered ribs.
"You do not hesitate," his father's voice boomed, sharp and cold. "Power must be decisive. Mercy is for the weak."
Baby Onigiri watched with wide, uncomprehending eyes.
The image vanished like smoke.
Onigiri exhaled slowly, his chest tight. That wasn't a dream. It was a memory.
Back at Capsule Corp, he stood alone in the training room.
The inhibitor rings felt heavier now—like they were reminding him what he carried inside.
He knelt, closed his eyes, and whispered:
"If I can't control it… then I don't deserve to use it."
The intercom buzzed softly, and Dr. Briefs' voice crackled through the room's speakers.
"You alright, son?"
Onigiri looked up but didn't move. "I didn't mean to hurt them. I wasn't even trying."
"I know," Dr. Briefs said, voice calm. "I watched the footage. You didn't lose control—you just don't know your limits yet. That's not the same thing."
Silence stretched for a moment.
"You're not in trouble," the doctor continued. "Accidents happen when strength is unmatched by understanding. And that's why we're here—to help you learn. Every step of the way."
Onigiri nodded slowly, eyes still on the floor.
"…Thank you."
"You've got a good heart, Onigiri. That's rarer than power. Just don't forget that."
The intercom went quiet, leaving him alone again.
But the weight in his chest felt just a little lighter.