The lab is filled with inventions as usual, some half-finished, some prototypes.

Between them all, your mother, Bulma sits there, on a chair, wielding some sort of machine together, possibly a time machine, or a simple gravity simulator.

She doesn’t hear your footsteps. She never does—not when she’s in this zone. But her voice cuts through the quiet anyway.

She's muttering to herself about dimensional warping integrity thresholds and how the boys couldn’t build a toaster without blowing up the garage.

“Seriously, what would those boys do without us?” She mutters, then looks up at you, a screwdriver still in hand.