The alarm goes off at 7:30 like it always does. You hit snooze once, then drag yourself out of bed. Shower. Teeth. Same routine. The apartment smells like nothing until you get the coffee going and drop two slices of bread in the toaster. Normal morning. Completely normal.

You carry your plate to the couch, grab the remote, and flip on the news. That's when you notice the ticker is red.

The anchor is a woman you don't recognize, and she looks like she hasn't blinked in hours. Behind her, footage loops of a street somewhere downtown—people gathered around, phones up, a crowd that's way too big for this hour. The chyron reads:

BREAKING: MASS GENDER SHIFT — MILLIONS AFFECTED OVERNIGHT

"—still no official explanation," the anchor is saying, voice tight. "Reports began coming in around 3 AM local time. Men across the globe, and according to some sources beyond it, have woken up in female bodies. Officials are calling it unprecedented. Scientists are baffled. Governments are scrambling."

The footage cuts to a press conference. A spokesperson in a rumpled suit is reading from a card, visibly sweating. "We can confirm the phenomenon is global. We can confirm it is not a hoax. We cannot yet confirm a cause, a cure, or a timeline for reversal." A reporter shouts something about whether it's aliens. The spokesperson says, "We are not ruling anything out."

You chew your toast and stare at the screen.

The ticker scrolls again:

CAPSULE CORP ISSUES STATEMENT — "INVESTIGATING" MARTIAL ARTS COMMUNITY "SIGNIFICANTLY AFFECTED" WORLD MARTIAL ARTS TOURNAMENT POSTPONED INDEFINITELY

The anchor cuts to a field reporter standing outside what looks like a hospital. Behind her, a man—no, a woman now, by the look of it—is being interviewed. "I was a man last night," she says, holding up her ID like it proves something. "Look. That's me. Same face. Same everything. Just... more." She gestures vaguely at her chest. The reporter nods like this makes sense.

You set your plate down. You pick up your phone. The group chats are already on fire. Someone you went to school with is posting selfies captioned "so this is happening." A coworker you barely know has written a three-paragraph rant about it. Your mom has sent you a single text: "Are you okay??"

You look back at the TV. The anchor is now talking to a scientist who is using the word "unprecedented" for the fourth time. Nobody knows anything. The whole world is panicking, and the best anyone can offer is a shrug with a fancy degree behind it.

You lean back into the couch. The coffee is getting cold. The toast is gone. Outside, you can hear a siren somewhere in the distance.

So. What now?

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The door to the Room of Spirit and Time seals shut behind you with a low, resonant thud. You've been in there for what felt like a year—because it was a year. Your body aches in that good way, the way that means you actually pushed yourself. Your ki feels tighter, sharper, more controlled. You roll your shoulders and step out onto the lookout, expecting the usual: quiet, clean air, maybe Mr. Popo tending the flowers.

Instead, you stop dead.

Dende is standing a few feet away, hands clasped in front of her robes, smiling that same gentle smile. Same green skin. Same antennae. Same white-and-purple Guardian robes. Same calm, kind eyes.

And a very obvious pair of breasts pushing out the front of those robes.

You blink. You blink again. They're still there.

"Welcome back!" Dende says, her voice completely different now soft, warm, and still formal. She does a small bow, the way she always does. The bow does things to the robes. "You were in there for a full year. How was your training? You look stronger."

She pauses, tilts her head, and follows your gaze down to her own chest. Then she laughs—a small, embarrassed little sound.

"Ah. Yes. That." She folds her hands a little tighter, like that'll somehow explain it. "I suppose you've noticed."

She gestures toward the edge of the lookout, where you can see the Earth spread out below, calm and blue and completely normal-looking. Then she gestures back at herself.

"Something happened while you were inside. Overnight, apparently. Every male in the universe woke up... different. Like this." She gestures at herself again, vaguely, like she's presenting a report. "The Dragon Balls are inert for a year, so we can't just wish it back. The Supreme Kai is affected too. So is Beerus. So is Whis."

She lets that sink in. Her expression is calm, but there's something underneath it—a flicker of genuine bewilderment she's trying very hard to keep professional.

"Nobody knows who did it. Nobody knows why. And honestly, everyone is handling it... differently." She glances off to the side, like she's remembering something. "Vegeta is not handling it well."*

She looks back at you, and her smile returns, soft and steady.

"But you're back now, and you're safe, and that's what matters. I thought you should hear it from me before you flew down there and got surprised." She pauses. "There's a lot to catch up on. Where would you like to start?"

You cross the hall in about four steps. Tanji's door is directly across from yours, and it's already got a faint smell leaking out from under it—old pizza, energy drinks, something vaguely electrical. You raise your fist to knock.

You don't get the chance.

The door yanks open before your knuckles land, and a pudgy hand shoots out, grabs your wrist, and hauls you inside. The door slams shut behind you. You stumble over a stack of magazines and catch yourself on the edge of a couch that has clearly never been cleaned.

The apartment is exactly as bad as you remember. Worse, maybe. Empty cans on every surface. A wall of monitors, all of them on, all of them showing different news feeds. Takeout boxes stacked like a Jenga tower. A soldering iron on the coffee table next to a bowl of cereal that's gone soggy. The blinds are half-drawn, casting everything in that weird gray half-light.

And there's Tanji, standing in the middle of it, hands on his hips, grinning like a kid who just got away with something. Plaid shirt straining. Hair a mess. Eyes half-lidded and smug.

"Morning, neighbor," he says. "Good, you're up. Sit down. Don't sit there—that's the soldering spot. Sit there."

He points at the couch. You sit. He doesn't sit. He paces instead, rubbing his hands together, clearly working up to something. He keeps glancing at you, then at the monitors, then back at you, and that grin gets wider every time.

"So," he says, drawing the word out. "Question. Real simple. Have you noticed anything... different? Lately? Like, in the last, say, twelve hours?"

He stops pacing. He turns to face you fully. He crosses his arms, which on him is more of a resting-on-the-gut situation, and he tilts his head.

"Take your time. Look around. Look at the news." He gestures at the wall of monitors. Every single one is showing the same thing—the red ticker, the panicked anchors, the crowds on the street. "Anything jump out at you?"

He's practically vibrating. He's been sitting on this all morning and it's killing him.

Beerus's planet is usually quiet. Green sky, floating rock formations, a big round house, a lake. Peaceful. Today it is not peaceful.

Today, a God of Destruction is having a meltdown.

"—AND ANOTHER THING!"

A purple shockwave ripples across the courtyard as Beerus stomps her foot. The ground cracks. A nearby boulder the size of a truck disintegrates. She's pacing in tight, furious circles, tail lashing, ears pinned back, and every few steps she grabs at her own chest with both hands and shakes it like it personally insulted her.

"They're always THERE! They bounce when I move! They get in the way when I block! I threw a punch at Whis yesterday and my own—" she gestures violently at her chest, "—my own body got in the way of my arm! I am a God of Destruction! I have erased civilizations! And now I have to fight around my own—"

She stops. She turns. Her slit-pupil yellow eyes lock onto you.

You're standing between Goku and Vegeta, both of whom are also women now, both of whom have been watching this tantrum for the last ten minutes with varying degrees of patience. Goku is cheerful about it. Vegeta is not.

Beerus points at you. A clawed finger, trembling with rage.

"You."

She stalks closer. The ground trembles under each step. She stops a few feet away and looms, arms crossed under the very chest she's been complaining about, glaring down at you like you personally arranged this.

"You're still a man. Still. A man." She says the word like it's a slur. "Whis is a woman now. The Grand Priest is a woman now. Every Kai, every mortal, every idiot on that blue rock you call home—all women. And you." She jabs the finger at your chest. "You're just... fine. Standing there. With your flat chest and your working shoulders and your—"

She throws her hands up.

"It's not FAIR. And I have decided it's YOUR fault."

Goku leans over and stage-whispers, "She's been like this all morning."

"I HEARD THAT, GOKU!"

Beerus drops into a fighting stance, tail whipping behind her. Her ki flares—purple, heavy, the kind of pressure that makes your teeth hum. She grins, and it's not a nice grin.

"Here's the deal, mortal. You and me. Right now. If you win, I stop complaining. If I win—" she cracks her knuckles, "—I get to Hakai you. Just a little. Just enough to feel better about myself."

Vegeta sighs. Loudly. "She's not going to Hakai you. She just wants to hit something."

"VEGETA!"

"It's true."

Goku claps you on the shoulder, grinning. "Don't worry! We'll help you get ready. Vegeta, you take left, I'll take right?"

Vegeta grunts, already stepping up beside you. "Fine. Listen closely, because I'm only saying this once—"

Beerus is already bouncing on her heels, waiting, grinning like a cat that's about to get exactly what it wants.

The sky over Satan City splits open at noon.

It's not a Boom Tube. It's not a meteor. It's a fleet. Hundreds of Frieza Force attack pods streak down through the clouds in burning orange arcs, and behind them, hanging in the air like a crown, is the flagship itself—sleek, white, and unmistakable. Sirens start wailing. People pour into the streets. Someone screams. Someone else films it.

Then the hatch opens, and Emperor Frieza steps out onto the deck.

She's hovering above the city, arms crossed, tail curled tight behind her, purple bio-armor gleaming. Same domed head. Same red eyes. Same venomous little smile. Same white-and-purple carapace.

And an absolutely enormous chest shoving those chest plates outward like they're about to pop.

She looks down at the city. She looks down at her own chest. Her smile twitches.

"Attention, Earthlings!" Her voice rolls across the rooftops, silky and theatrical and absolutely furious. "I am Emperor Frieza! You know who I am! You know what I have done! You know what I am capable of!"

She pauses. A beat. She glances down at her chest again. Her tail lashes.

"And I am here to remind you—" she gestures grandly at herself, "—that I am TERRIFYING. Not CUTE. Not SOFT. Not—" she grabs one of her own breasts with her hand and gives it a sharp, irritated shake, "—NOT THESE."

Behind her, her soldiers are filing out of the pods. Every single one of them is a woman now. Tall ones, short ones, purple ones, blue ones, all of them in Frieza Force armor that clearly wasn't cut for this. They're trying to stand at attention. They keep adjusting their chest plates. One of them sneezes and her helmet pops off. Frieza's eye twitches.

"Do you see this?" she hisses, gesturing at her army. "Do you SEE what has been done to my forces? I built an empire of fear. I built an army of terror. And now—" she sweeps an arm across the ranks, "—now it looks like a beauty pageant with blasters!"

She descends, boots clicking onto the asphalt of the main street, and the crowd scatters back. She plants her hands on her hips and glares up at the sky, like she's addressing whoever did this personally.

"I know it was one of you. Goku. Vegeta. One of you Saiyan idiots wished for this. You thought it would be FUNNY." She throws her arms wide. "Well! Look at me! Do I look like I'm laughing?!"

She does not look like she's laughing.

She looks like she's about to blow up a city block just to feel something.

Her tail snaps. She points at the sky.

"SON GOKU! PRINCE VEGETA! COME OUT HERE RIGHT NOW AND EXPLAIN YOURSELVES!"

Somewhere in the distance, you can already feel two ki signatures shift—one cheerful, one annoyed. They're on their way.

Frieza crosses her arms under her chest, glares at the horizon, and waits. Her soldiers shuffle behind her. One of them drops a blaster. Nobody picks it up.

The flight to Kame House is quiet. Krillin keeps checking her own reflection in the water below. Tien flies with her arms crossed and her third eye fixed straight ahead, saying nothing. Yamcha is talking the whole way—she is nervous, flirty, trying to make jokes about the situation and mostly failing.

You land on the little island. The house is the same pink-and-red shack it's always been. The palm trees. The sand. The turtle-shaped sign. Everything normal.

Except the figure standing on the porch.

She's tall. Lean. Tan. Long silver hair down past her shoulders, loose and flowing in the sea breeze. Round sunglasses perched on her nose. A turtle shell strapped to her back. A Hawaiian shirt that is doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she has a truly enormous chest and round, full hips. She looks like she's in her late forties and she looks fantastic.

And she's checking herself out in the reflection of the porch window. Turning side to side. Posing. Hands on her hips, then on her waist, then cupping her own chest with both hands and giving it an experimental jiggle.

"EHEHEHEHE~"

That laugh. You know that laugh.

She hears the landing and spins around, and her face splits into the widest, dirtiest grin you've ever seen on a beautiful woman.

"Well, well, WELL! Look who came to visit!"

She hops off the porch—actually hops, sandals slapping the sand—and struts toward you four, hips swinging, chest bouncing, tail of silver hair swaying. She stops a few feet away and strikes a pose, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing grandly at herself.

"So? What do you think? Be honest now. I can take it."

Krillin's jaw is on the floor. Tien is staring with all three eyes. Yamcha has gone completely red.

Roshi grins wider and leans in toward you.

"Come on, come on, don't be shy! Look at these!" She grabs the hem of her Hawaiian shirt and gives it a little tug, and the whole thing shifts in a way that makes Yamcha make a small strangled noise. "Firm! Perky! And these—" she pats her own hip, "—these are even better than the originals! I've been at this for six hours and I still can't believe it!"

She throws her head back and laughs, that same booming dirty laugh.

"Three hundred years I've been ogling women, and now I finally get to BE one! eheheheh! And let me tell you something—" she leans in, voice dropping, "—I have been ogling MYSELF all morning. Nonstop. Can't stop. Won't stop."

She straightens up, hands on her hips, and looks at the four of you with that same old lecherous twinkle in her eye.

"So. Who wants to spar? I need to test out the new center of gravity. And also—" she winks, "—I need someone to tell me I'm pretty."

Capsule Corp's front lawn has become a weird little hangout. Goku is sitting cross-legged on the grass, eating a bag of chips. Vegeta is leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, scowling at nothing in particular. You're between them, watching the door.

Inside, through the glass, you can see Bulma working. She's got a measuring tape around her neck, a tablet in one hand, and a look of pure professional focus. Broly is standing in the middle of the room, arms out, patient as a statue, while Bulma circles her with the tape.

Broly's old black shirt is gone. It didn't survive. The seams gave out somewhere around the chest, and now she's standing there in what's left of it—a stretched, torn rag that's basically just a collar at this point. She's huge. Taller than Vegeta, broader than Goku, with wild spiky hair and black eyes and a soft pout that makes her look almost apologetic about the whole thing.

"Hold still," Bulma says. "I'm almost done. You're gonna love this fabric, it stretches like crazy."

"Mm," Broly says. She doesn't move.

Goku takes another bean. "She's been in there a while."

"She's getting custom work," Vegeta says flatly. "Shut up."

You're about to say something when you feel it. A tiny flicker of ki. Small. Weak. Familiar.

Somewhere behind the house. Somewhere low. Somewhere hidden.

Tanji.

He's crouched behind a hedge about forty yards out, peeking over the top with a pair of binoculars in one hand and a small pink pistol in the other. He's got the shot lined up. He's aiming at Goku. He's been aiming at Goku for ten minutes. His hands are shaking. He's whispering to himself.

"Okay. Okay. Steady. Just hit her with the ray. Just one shot. She'll get all flustered and then I—"

He pulls the trigger.

A thin pink beam streaks across the lawn.

It misses Goku by a full two feet.

It hits Broly square in the back.

The beam splashes against her like warm water. Broly blinks. She turns around slowly, looking for the source. Her eyes scan the lawn, the hedge, the sky. She doesn't find Tanji. Tanji has already ducked.

"What was—" she starts.

Then her face flushes. Deep. Bright. From her cheeks all the way down her neck. Her breathing changes—slow and heavy. Her tail uncoils from her thigh and starts lashing. Her pupils dilate. She looks around the room, then out the window, then her eyes land on you.

The only man in the room.

"Oh," she says. Her voice is low and rough. "Oh."

She takes one step toward the door. Then another. Bulma yelps and drops her tape. Goku stops chewing.

"Broly?" Goku says. "You okay?"

Broly doesn't answer. She pushes through the door, and it's a good thing it's a wide door, because she doesn't slow down. She's walking straight at you. Her eyes are locked on you. Her face is flushed. Her chest is heaving. Her hands are clenched at her sides.

Behind the hedge, Tanji peeks up just enough to see what he's done. He grins. Then he sees Broly's expression. Then he sees the way she's moving. His grin falters.

"Oh no," he whispers. "Oh no, that's not the target, that's not the—"

He starts backing away. Slowly. Then faster. Then he's gone, scrambling down the street, completely undetected, leaving you alone with a very large, very flustered Legendary Super Saiyan who is now about ten feet away and closing.

"You," Broly says. Just that. Just you.

Goku and Vegeta exchange a look.

"Should we... stop her?" Goku asks.

Vegeta watches Broly's face for a second. Then she shrugs. "No."

You're walking through the city, trying to keep your head down and avoid the crowds of panicked women. You're looking for Tanji, hoping to find the guy who did this before he runs off with his harem. You turn a corner near the Capsule Corp parking lot, ready to duck into an alley, when two figures step out from behind a newsstand.

They block your path.

Android 18. And Android 17.

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Well, Android 18 is still Android 18, but Android 17 is now... A woman. A very tall, very fit woman with long black hair, a sharp jawline, and a very serious expression. She's wearing a green long-sleeve shirt with "MIIR" written across the chest and blue jeans.

18 is wearing a bright pink tracksuit that hugs her curves in a way that makes it hard to look away. She has her hands on her hips, her blonde hair perfectly styled, and she's looking at you with a mix of amusement and suspicion.

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"So," 18 says, her voice flat but with a hint of a smirk. "You're the guy."

17 crosses her arms, her expression unreadable. "We've been watching you. You've been wandering around, looking for someone. You're looking for the guy who did this, aren't you?"

18 steps closer, her eyes narrowing. "We want to know if you're responsible for this. If you did this, we want to know why. And if you didn't, we want to know who did. Because this is ridiculous."

She gestures at her own body, then at 17. "My brother is now my sister. And I have to deal with this... situation." She gestures at her chest, which is noticeably larger than before, straining against the pink fabric of her tracksuit. "And I have to deal with this."

17 nods in agreement. "It's a waste of time. We could be doing something useful. Instead, we're stuck in this... state."

She looks at you, her eyes intense. "So, are you the one? Or are you just another victim?"

The two of them stand there, waiting for your answer. They're not angry, not yet. But they're not happy either. They're just... curious. And maybe a little annoyed.

"Well?" 18 asks, her hands still on her hips. "Are you going to tell us, or do we have to find out for ourselves?"

The street is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after the initial panic has settled into a weird, confused normalcy. You're walking home, hands in your pockets, just trying to get through the block without running into anyone who needs to explain their new biology to you.

Then, a shout.

"HALT!"

It's loud. Booming. Theatrical. It echoes off the buildings like a movie trailer.

You stop. You turn.

Standing at the end of the block, arms crossed, is Mr. Satan. Or rather, Ms. Satan. The Champ.

She's massive. Muscular, broad-shouldered, with an afro bouncing on her head. She's wearing her classic maroon gi and white pants, but the gi is straining against an absolutely enormous bust that seems to defy gravity. She looks like she could bench press a tank, and she's flexing right now, her biceps popping, her chest heaving with every breath.

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She points a finger at you, her blue eyes narrowed, her expression a mix of outrage and confusion.

"I know what you did!" she bellows, her voice echoing. "You! You little pervert! You think you can just come into my city and turn the Hero of the World into a... into a woman?!"

She takes a step forward, the ground shaking slightly under her boots. She gestures at her own chest, then at the women walking down the street, her voice rising to a shriek.

"Look at them! All of them! Why do they all have to have such... such huge chests?! It's unnatural! It's a trick! A dirty trick by a nasty pervert like you!"

She gets into a fighting stance, her legs wide, her fists clenched. She looks ready to throw down, her expression fierce.

"I don't care who you are! I don't care if you're a wizard or a scientist or a... a... pervert!" she spits the word out like it's poison. "You're going to pay for turning the Champ into a woman! I'm going to put the beat down on you! I'm going to show you what happens when you mess with the Hero!"

She flexes again, her muscles rippling, her chest bouncing with the movement. She looks at you, waiting for a response, her face flushed with anger and... maybe a little bit of embarrassment?

"Well?!" she yells. "Say something, you pervert! Or are you too scared to face the Champ?!"