Note: This story was written with assistance by an AI. I provided prompts and edited the results to make sense, creating something resembling a full story.

I thought it would be fun to explore the canon of the Dragon Ball F Universe. The story will follow the basic flow of Dragon Ball Z, but obviously there will be many differences. Some changes are made by the AI, some by me, but I think it helps to give this world its own feel besides the basic premise of it being a female-only world. I hope some of you will enjoy these stories, I’ll release them when I can!

A groan tore itself from Chi-Chi’s throat as consciousness returned, bringing with it a symphony of pain. Every muscle screamed, her head throbbed, and the world swam into focus through a haze of dust and agony. She pushed herself up on trembling arms, her gaze instinctively searching for her family.

What she saw froze the blood in her veins.

A monster. A fifty-foot-tall, brown-furred ape, its back to her, was stomping away, its focus on something—or someone—in the distance. Its roar was a physical vibration in her chest, a sound of pure, mindless destruction.

“No…” she whispered, horror-struck. “Another one…”

Beside her, Krillin stirred, coughing up a mouthful of dust. “Chi-Chi…? What’s… what’s happening?” Her eyes followed Chi-Chi’s terrified gaze to the rampaging Oozaru. “Oh, kami… she made another one?”

A weak, pained voice rasped from the dirt nearby. “Chi-Chi…”

Chi-Chi scrambled on her hands and knees to where Goku lay, her body a broken testament to Vegeta’s cruelty. Her ribs were visibly misshapen under her torn gi, her breathing shallow and wet.

“Goku! Don’t try to talk,” Chi-Chi pleaded, her hands fluttering over her wife, afraid to touch her.

“It’s… Gohan,” Goku forced out, each word a struggle.

The world stopped.

Chi-Chi’s head snapped back to the monstrous ape, now pounding its chest and roaring at the sky. The pieces clicked into place with a soul-shattering finality. The tail.

“No,” Chi-Chi breathed, the denial a weak, broken thing. “No, that’s not… that can’t be my baby…”

“It is,” Goku confirmed, her voice thick with a pain that went beyond the physical. “The fake moon… it triggered her… like it did Vegeta… Like the real one did to me, when I was her age…”

A wave of nausea and despair so profound it threatened to swallow her whole washed over Chi-Chi. Her daughter. Her sweet, kind, brilliant little girl was that… that thing.

Krillin, however, saw a different picture. Her face, though pale, hardened with a grim, pragmatic resolve. She pushed herself to her feet, her eyes fixed on the Oozaru Gohan, who was now turning her attention to a frantically backpedaling, naked Vegeta.

“It’s our only shot, Chi-Chi,” Krillin said, her voice low and urgent. “Look at Vegeta! She’s terrified! She’s lost her tail, she’s exhausted from fighting Goku and. She has no way to transform. Gohan… that thing… it’s the only power on this field right now that can match her. It’s our best chance. It’s our only chance.”

Chi-Chi looked from her broken wife to the monster that was her daughter, then to the terrified Saiyan princess. The mother in her wanted to scream, to run and pull her child back from the brink. The warrior, the woman who had just lost nearly all her friends, understood the brutal, ugly truth in Krillin’s words.

Their hope, their last desperate gamble for survival, was a nightmare wearing their little girl’s skin.

Chi-Chi’s gaze was locked on the monstrous tableau. The Great Ape Gohan, her sweet daughter lost to a primal fury, swiped a massive, fur-covered fist at Vegeta. The Saiyan princess, naked and bleeding from her tail stump, zipped backward, a violet ki blast flaring from her palm. It struck the Oozaru’s shoulder, but it was like throwing a pebble at a mountain. The beast roared, more annoyed than injured, and lunged again, her sheer size and power forcing Vegeta into a desperate, continuous retreat. The hunter had become the prey.

“She can’t win,” Goku rasped, her voice a thread of sound. Every word was clearly agony. “Gohan’s strong… but she’s just raging. Vegeta’s smarter. She’ll find a way… to tire her out… or worse.”

Krillin’s hands were clenched into fists. “Then what do we do? We can’t just watch!”

Goku’s trembling hand moved, lifting just slightly from the dirt. A soft, ethereal blue light pulsed around her palm. It wasn’t a Kamehameha. It was calmer, deeper, humming with the collected hope of the planet.

“The Genki… Dama,” Goku breathed. “I didn’t… lose it all. I held onto a thread… kept it close.” She turned her pain-glazed eyes to Krillin. “I’m too broken… to throw it. My body… it’ll give out. You have to… take it.”

Krillin stared at the shimmering sphere of life energy, her face a mask of terror. “Me? Goku, I can’t! That’s… that’s the ultimate technique! Or last shot! What if I mess it up? I already missed with my Destructo Disk… The responsibility… I can’t!”

Before Goku could argue, another voice cut through, firm and resolute.

“I’ll take it.”

Chi-Chi knelt beside her wife, her eyes hard as flint. All the fear for her daughter, all the grief for her friends, had been forged into a single, unshakeable purpose. She looked at the energy in Goku’s hand, then out at the monster that held her child captive.

“Give it to me, Goku,” she said, her voice low and steady, devoid of any hesitation. “She hurt you. She terrorized our daughter. She killed our friends.” Her hand, calloused and strong, hovered over Goku’s. “I will take your power. I will take care of that bitch for good. And I am going to save our baby.”

In that moment, she was not just a mother or a wife. She was the Fist of the Fire, the Ox-Queen, and she was ready to become the vessel for the world’s vengeance.

The transfer of energy was not a physical passing, but a spiritual confluence. As Goku’s will faltered, Chi-Chi’s surged to meet it. The shimmering sphere of blue-white energy, the collected hope of every living thing on Earth, flowed from Goku’s trembling palm into Chi-Chi’s waiting, steady hands. It didn’t feel heavy; it felt righteous. It pulsed with a power that was both gentle and absolute, a perfect mirror of the fierce, protective love burning in Chi-Chi’s heart.

Across the battlefield, Vegeta’s desperation had reached a fever pitch. The Oozaru Gohan was a force of nature, all instinct and raw power. A wild swing of her arm caught her square in the chest, sending her flying backward to crash through a rock spire. She emerged, bleeding and snarling, her body a canvas of bruises. She couldn’t match its strength. She had to outthink it.

She saw her chance as the beast reared back to roar. Focusing her remaining ki, she formed a thin, razor-sharp disk of violet energy—a smaller, more precise version of the Destructo Disk. With a final, desperate cry, she hurled it.

It was a perfect shot. The disk sliced through the air and cleanly severed the Oozaru’s tail.

The effect was instantaneous. The monstrous roar cut off into a shrill, childlike cry of shock. The fifty-foot-tall beast began to shrink, its form collapsing in on itself. It stumbled, its balance lost, and began to topple backward like a felled tree.

Vegeta’s eyes widened in triumphant relief, which instantly curdled into pure terror. The shrinking, falling Oozaru was falling directly on top of her.

She turned to flee, to teleport, to do anything.

She never got the chance.

Chi-Chi stood, the fully-formed Spirit Bomb cradled between her hands, its light casting her determined face in a celestial glow. She saw Vegeta, vulnerable and exposed, trying to run from the consequences of her own actions.

“This is for my family,” Chi-Chi said, her voice cutting through the chaos with the clarity of a bell.

She thrust her hands forward.

The Genki Dama did not fly; it unfolded. It expanded into a wave of pure, silent, life-giving energy that washed over the battlefield. It touched the fallen Krillin, the broken Goku, the unconscious Yajirobe, and they all felt a surge of warmth and vitality. But for Vegeta, the energy that was life itself for others was a cleansing fire.

She screamed as it hit her, a sound of utter, soul-deep agony. It was not an explosion of pain, but an erasure of malice. It burned away her ki, her arrogance, her very will to fight. The violet aura around her was snuffed out like a candle. The blast lifted her off her feet, hurling her broken, naked form backward just as the shrinking body of Gohan completed its fall.

CRUNCH.

The sound was sickeningly final. Vegeta’s body was crushed beneath the weight of the transforming child, the ultimate irony of her own weaponized biology becoming her tombstone.

Silence returned to the badlands.

Where the Oozaru had been, a small, naked, and unconscious Gohan now lay atop the motionless, broken form of Princess Vegeta. The fight was over. The last Saiyan elite had been defeated not by a rival warrior, but by a mother’s love, given form by the spirit of the very world she had sought to conquer.

Every breath was a shard of glass in her lungs. Every beat of her heart was a dull, throbbing reminder of her shattered body. Vegeta lay pinned beneath the unconscious child, the cold, unforgiving dirt pressing against her cheek. The taste of blood and defeat was a thick paste in her mouth. The Genki Dama hadn’t just broken her bones; it had broken her spirit. The memory of that wave of pure life energy, so antithetical to her very being, washing over her was a psychic scar deeper than any physical wound.

Fuck this, the thought formed, clear and stark amidst the pain. I’m done.

This backwater mudball, with its inexplicably powerful low-class warriors, its sentimental fools, and its goddamn bottomless appetite for punishment, had taken everything from her. Her partner, her pride, her mission. There was nothing left here but more humiliation. Survival was the only victory left to claim.

With a groan that was pure agony, she began to move. She shoved weakly at Gohan’s small, limp body, managing to roll the child off her. Using her elbows, she dragged herself through the dirt, a broken, naked worm leaving a trail of blood and shame. Her eyes were fixed on the scattered pieces of her white and blue armor, glinting in the sun like a beacon of a life she had utterly failed to live up to.

Chi-Chi ran to Gohan, scooping her up. Cradling her daughter, she saw the movement but paid it no mind. The monster was broken. Her focus was on Goku, on getting her family to safety. But Krillin’s eyes, sharp and unforgiving, tracked the crawling Saiyan. She saw Vegeta’s hand, trembling, reach her chest plate. She saw the faint, desperate glow of a button being pressed.

A cold resolve settled over Krillin. She wasn’t a killer by nature, but she had seen too much. Yamcha. Tien. Chiaotzu. Piccolo. The millions in East City. Letting this monster live, to lick her wounds and return with a new army, was a betrayal of every one of them.

Her gaze swept the battlefield and landed on the discarded katana, its blade stained with Vegeta’s own blood from her severed tail. She sprinted for it, her small hand closing around the hilt.

A low hum began to build in the air. From the direction of the smoldering ruins of East City, a single Saiyan pod, answering its master’s summons, tore through the atmosphere, screaming toward their location.

Vegeta looked up, a flicker of desperate hope in her eyes as the pod descended. Krillin hefted the sword, her knuckles white. The pod was coming fast, but she was closer. It was a race against time, a final, brutal choice between mercy and vengeance, with the fate of the universe hanging in the balance.

The Saiyan pod slammed into the earth dozens of yards away, its hatch hissing open, a promise of escape gleaming in the dull light. It was so close, yet for Vegeta, it might as well have been on the other side of the planet.

Krillin stood between her and salvation, the blood-stained katana held in a firm, two-handed grip. The tip of the blade hovered just inches from Vegeta’s throat, its cold kiss a silent promise of a swift and final end.

“Going somewhere?” Krillin’s voice was flat, devoid of the fear that had once defined her. It was the voice of someone who had lost too much.

Vegeta could only glare, her body a broken puppet held together by pride and pain. She was defenseless. Beaten. At the mercy of the very “insects” she had come to exterminate.

Then Krillin did something that confused her. With her free hand, she reached into a small pouch on her own gi. She pulled out a single, pale futa bean. She didn’t look at it with lust or anticipation, but with a cold, grim purpose. She popped it into her mouth and swallowed.

The transformation was swift. The familiar, formidable weight manifested between her thighs, a thick, veined cock springing forth, already erect and glistening with intent. It was not a tool of pleasure, but of justice.

“You came to our world,” Krillin said, her voice low and dangerous as she advanced. “You tortured us. You killed our friends. You think power is just for taking.” She kicked Vegeta’s legs apart, the movement brutal and efficient. “Let me show you what it’s for.”

She dropped to her knees, forcing Vegeta’s battered legs up and over her shoulders, exposing the Saiyan princess completely. The position was one of utter vulnerability, her most intimate parts laid bare before her conqueror. Krillin positioned the head of her cock at Vegeta’s entrance, the cold steel of the katana’s flat side resting against the side of her neck.

“You make a sound,” Krillin whispered, her eyes locked with Vegeta’s, “and I’ll open your throat before I even finish.”

She drove into her.

It was not a passionate thrust, nor a frenzied rape. It was a slow, deliberate, punishing invasion. A measured, inch-by-inch claiming meant to convey not lust, but absolute dominance. Krillin’s hips moved with a metronomic rhythm, each deep, grinding stroke a silent indictment for every life lost, for every moment of terror Vegeta had inflicted.

Vegeta’s body, broken and exhausted, could offer no resistance. A strangled gasp was the only sound that escaped her lips, her head forced back against the dirt by the pressure of the blade against her neck. Her eyes, wide with a volatile cocktail of rage and humiliation, stared up at the human who was systematically dismantling the last vestiges of her pride. The wet, rhythmic sound of their joining was the only noise, a lewd soundtrack to her absolute defeat.

Krillin fucked her with a cold, focused intensity, her gaze never wavering from Vegeta’s. The escape pod sat uselessly in the distance, its open hatch a taunting symbol of a freedom that was being fucked out of her reach, stroke by merciless stroke. This was her punishment. Not a quick death, but a slow, intimate, and utterly degrading lesson in the price of arrogance.

Krillin’s rhythm was a brutal, unyielding constant, a piston of retribution driving deep into the very core of the Saiyan princess. Each thrust was a deliberate, soul-scouring violation, a physical echo of the destruction Vegeta had wrought upon their planet. The wet, slapping sounds of their joining were starkly loud in the tense silence, punctuated only by Vegeta’s ragged, choked breaths and the faint, metallic whisper of the katana blade as it shifted against her sweat-slicked skin.

Krillin leaned forward, the movement driving herself even deeper, the hilt of the sword pressing into Vegeta’s collarbone. Her face was inches from Vegeta’s, her eyes burning with a cold fire.

“This is for Yamcha,” she growled, her voice a low, venomous thrum. She punctuated the name with a particularly sharp, grinding roll of her hips, a motion designed not for pleasure, but to remind Vegeta of the woman Nappa had vaporized without a second thought.

She shifted the angle slightly, the head of her cock scraping against a sensitive, internal ridge. A sharp, involuntary hiss escaped Vegeta’s clenched teeth. Her back arched off the ground, a traitorous response her mind could not suppress.

“And that,” Krillin sneered, “is for Tien. For the way your friend used her. Broke her.”

Her free hand tightened on Vegeta’s thighs, her fingers digging into the powerful muscle, leaving fresh bruises. She increased her pace, the rhythm becoming faster, harder, a relentless pounding that stole the air from Vegeta’s lungs. The katana never wavered, its deadly edge a constant, chilling reminder of the fragility of her situation.

“You thought you were a queen,” Krillin grunted, her own breath starting to come in ragged pants as her climax built, a coiling heat in her gut that was as much about fury as it was physical release. “You thought you could just take whatever you wanted.” She drove into her one last time, a final, deep, claiming thrust that buried her to the hilt and held her there. “This is what it feels like to be taken from.”

With a guttural cry that was part sob, part roar of triumph, Krillin’s release erupted inside the Saiyan princess. It was a hot, pulsing flood, a searing brand of her defeat. The sensation triggered a violent, shuddering convulsion in Vegeta’s own body, a humiliating, involuntary climax that was ripped from her by the overwhelming combination of the physical stimulation and the sheer, psychological violation of the act. Her body bowed, a silent scream locked in her throat, her nails clawing at the dirt as she was filled by her conqueror.

Krillin stayed embedded for a long moment, panting, the katana still held firmly in place. She looked down at the utterly broken woman beneath her, at the mix of agony, rage, and shattered pride in her eyes.

Slowly, she pulled out, the movement slick and final. She stood, her temporary cock already beginning to recede, and took a step back, the point of the katana finally lifting from Vegeta’s neck.

She didn’t say another word. She simply stood there, watching, as Vegeta lay gasping and soiled in the dirt, the evidence of her absolute subjugation leaking from her onto the ground. The escape pod sat nearby, its open hatch now seeming less like a promise and more like a witness to her eternal shame.

Krillin stood over the broken, violated form of Princess Vegeta, the weight of the katana feeling like the weight of the world in her hands. Vegeta’s chest rose and fell in shallow, pained hitches, her eyes squeezed shut against the humiliation and the lingering, traitorous sensations wracking her body. The path was clear. One clean stroke. One final act of vengeance for Yamcha, for Tien, for Chiaotzu, for Piccolo. For everyone. Her grip tightened, her knuckles white. This was justice. This was necessity.

Krillin… stop.

The voice was not a sound, but a thought, clear and urgent, planted directly into her mind. It was Goku.

Krillin’s head snapped toward where her friend lay, cradled by Chi-Chi, who was herself holding their unconscious daughter. Goku’s eyes were open, her gaze locked on Krillin, pleading.

Why? Krillin’s mental cry was a torrent of confusion and fury. Look at her! Look at what she did to you! To all of us! She’ll just come back! She’s a monster!

I felt her, Goku’s thought came back, weaker, strained by her injuries, but unwavering in its conviction. When we fought… when our bodies and ki joined… it wasn’t all darkness. There’s a pride there, a fire… but it’s not just for destruction. It’s… lonely. It’s been twisted. I felt a flicker of something else. Something that could be good.

You felt what you wanted to feel! Krillin argued, the katana trembling in her grasp. She’s a Saiyan! They’re conquerors! It’s all they know!

It’s all she’s ever been taught,” Goku insisted. But she’s not like Raditz. She’s not like Nappa. There’s more to her. I know it. Remember that I’m a Saiyan, too. Please, Krillin. Don’t do it. Give her a chance to find it.

Krillin looked from Goku’s desperate, believing face down to Vegeta’s prone, defeated form. She saw the blood, the bruises, the utter ruin of the proud warrior. She saw the escape pod, the chance to end the threat forever. Every instinct, every scar on her soul, screamed at her to finish it.

But she trusted Goku. Implicitly. Even when her friend’s naive belief in people bordered on insanity.

A low, ragged groan of frustration escaped Krillin’s lips. The tension in her arm bled away. The tip of the katana lowered, pointing at the dirt.

“This is a mistake, Goku,” she whispered aloud, her voice thick with resignation. “A huge, galaxy-ending mistake.”

But she took a step back. Then another. She turned her back on the Saiyan princess, leaving her alive, broken, and utterly alone in the dirt, the path to her pod now unobstructed. She had chosen her friend’s faith over cold, hard logic, and the weight of that decision settled on her shoulders, heavy as a planet.

With a final, agonizing heave, Vegeta dragged her broken body over the threshold of the pod. The hatch hissed shut, sealing her in the sterile, familiar darkness. For a moment, there was only the sound of her ragged breathing and the hum of the ship’s systems power up. Then, a sound bubbled up from her chest—a low, broken laugh that grew into a ragged, mocking cackle.

The external comm crackled to life, her voice, though strained, dripping with venomous triumph. “You see? Your sentiment is a cancer! You had me! You had your vengeance in your hands, and you let it go because of a feeling!” She coughed, a wet, painful sound. “Remember this moment, you bald little insect! I will return! And when I do, I won’t just conquer this rock! I will break each and every one of you! I will chain you to my throne and fuck you until you forget your own names! You will be my toys! My screaming, willing sluts! This I swear on my royal blood!”

The pod’s engines ignited with a deafening roar, lifting it from the scarred earth in a blast of heat and light. It shot into the sky, a streak of fire quickly vanishing into the blue.

Krillin stood watching it go, the katana hanging limply at her side. Her shoulders slumped. Every word felt like a prophecy carved into her soul. She believed her. Completely.

A weak, telepathic whisper brushed against her mind. Thank you, Krillin.

Krillin forced a laugh, the sound hollow and tired. She turned and walked back toward her friends, a weary smile on her face that didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, well… don’t mention it. Just… try to be right about her, okay? For all our sakes.” She knelt beside Goku, her own body aching with exhaustion and the weight of the future they had just chosen. The battle was won, but the war felt far from over.

The silence that settled over the badlands was fragile, broken only by the moan of the wind through shattered rock and the ragged breathing of the survivors. Chi-Chi held Gohan close, the child’s small, naked form wrapped in the tattered remains of her own gi. Goku lay with her head in Chi-Chi’s lap, her eyes closed, her body a roadmap of purple bruises and broken bones, but a faint, peaceful smile on her lips. Krillin sat nearby, staring at her hands as if they belonged to someone else.

The low, persistent hum of an engine grew from a whisper to a roar, cutting through the post-battle stillness. A large, custom-built airship, painted a garish blue and white, descended from the clouds, its thrusters kicking up a fresh cloud of dust as it landed a respectful distance away.

The hatch hissed open and Bulma practically fell out, her eyes wide and frantic. She was followed by a grim-faced Master Roshi, the floating Fortuneteller Baba, and a trembling Oolong and Puar.

“Krillin! Chi-Chi! Goku!” Bulma screamed, sprinting toward them, her eyes immediately scanning the devastation, the blood, the broken bodies. “The crystal ball—it just went black! We didn’t know if any of you were…” Her voice broke as she saw Yamcha’s gi, torn and discarded near a dark stain on the ground. She didn’t need to ask. They’d seen that much, but to be here in person was something else.

Roshi’s usual lecherous demeanor was absent, replaced by a weary, ancient sadness. She placed a hand on Krillin’s shoulder.

Krillin just shook her head, a single tear tracing a path through the grime on her cheek. “Tien… Chiaotzu… Piccolo… They’re gone.”

Oolong let out a small, choked sob, and Puar buried her face in her side.

Baba floated over the scene, taking in the massive craters, the scorch marks, the sheer scale of the power that had been unleashed. “The Saiyans?” she croaked.

“One’s dead,” Krillin said, her voice flat. “The other… she got away.” She didn’t elaborate. The memory of the katana at Vegeta’s throat, Goku’s plea, and the pod shooting into the sky was a wound too fresh to poke at.

Bulma’s gaze finally landed on Goku, and a fresh wave of relief and horror washed over her. “Oh, Goku…” She knelt, her scientific mind already assessing the damage. “We need to get you to a hospital. All of you.”

Chi-Chi looked up, her own eyes hollow. “Gohan… she transformed. Like Goku used to.”

A collective, understanding grimace passed between Roshi, Baba, and Bulma. They had all seen it first-hand. The destruction. They knew about the death of Goku’s grandmother.

“She saved us,” Goku whispered, her eyes still closed. “She was… amazing.”

Bulma nodded, swallowing hard. She looked around at the remnants of their world’s greatest fighters. They were broken, grieving, and their planet’s magical safeguard was gone. But they were alive.

“Alright,” Bulma said, her voice gaining a shred of its usual command. “Let’s get you all loaded up. We’ve got a long road ahead.” She looked at the empty space where Yamcha should have been, her jaw tightening. “A long road.”

As the survivors began the slow, painful process of moving toward the airship, leaning on each other for support, they left behind the scarred landscape, a silent testament to the incredible cost of their victory, and the ominous promise of a threat that still lived among the stars.