Adult-FanFiction.org : Gundam, Beyblade, DBZ, FMA

Serendipity: Shifting the Paradigm	By : Ghost-of-a-Chance Category: Dragon Ball Z > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 589 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own DBZ, any of its characters/devices, or any books/movies/song mentioned; no money's being made here. I DO own Sierra, Rio, Rowan, & all my OCs...and a very fat cat named "Heifer."

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
Note regarding the school scene: In general, we assume that all characters in an anime are speaking the same language unless otherwise noted. If the show is subbed, we assume they're speaking Japanese; if it's dubbed, we can assume they're speaking whichever language they've dubbed it into. Normally I'd just leave language out entirely for an anime-based story. This story, however, is set in Japan with several persons not native to Japan, a few who speak with non-local color. You can't apply Missouri Twang and or Southern drawl to Japanese. It just doesn't work.
The Z senshi and their immediate companions are frequently in contact with people of other worlds and assumed semi-frequent contact with people of other lands, and they've got some major secrets they're keeping from the general populace. Thus, they're, they're sticking to "Standard" when talking amongst themselves but using the local norm for other situations. In school, the kids speak Japanese. Anyone other than the main characters and side characters, assume they're speaking Japanese unless otherwise noted. Main characters and OCs: unless someone is described as speaking Japanese, just assume they're speaking "Standard" either out of habit or to throw off eavesdroppers. In the upcoming 'school' scene, I'll be indicating Japanese speech with bold text and leaving English un-bolded so you know without having to deal with constant reminders. Lastly, Rowan's non-English speech should sound a little awkward. She's got dual citizenship but grew up in Japan so she's going to be fluent in both countries' languages, but it's still her second language.
…basically just roll with it and don't think too hard.

Suggested Listening: Seether "Rise Above This," Creed "Time," Genesis "Taking it All Too Hard"
…and my heart had a problem in the early hours,
So I stopped it dead for a beat or two,
But I cut some cord and I shouldn't have done it,
And it won't forgive me after all these years…*
9: Catalyst of a Looming Crisis
December came and went without much notice besides increased pain from the cold, and the beginning of the next year brought the same. True to her word, Bulma adopted the Stones' Family Friday celebration for her own motley family and enlisted Sierra in meal planning and preparation. Every time, Sierra's body ached beyond use for the week following and she had to visit Dende early for an extra healing session. Every time, no matter how much she hurt afterward, the next time the holiday came, Sierra rose to the occasion.
"So," Dende asked after a particularly long healing session, "was it worth it?"
"It was," she answered with a smile that only showed in her eyes, "a dozen times over." She was quickly learning something she missed out on as a youth: good times sometimes led to pain, but so long as the happiness outweighed the sorrow and the comfort the pain, they could be worth it. She wondered what her mother would have thought about such a sentiment, or her father, or her sisters or niece.
...nevermind...she knew what Rio would think about it. Rio's good times were what landed their family in the mess they were in right now. How could they have possibly been worth it? Once again, Sierra felt herself drawn inward – away from the warmth and light of the world below the Lookout and into the cold darkness of her past. Sometimes she sat on the tiles almost at the edge and fancied she could see the ends of the earth itself behind the endless blue; other times all she could manage was counting the clouds and wondering if rain was in the forecast. Depression, unfortunately, wasn't as easy to manage as the illness slowly eating away at her joints; some days it was all she could do to keep going, but those days were becoming fewer and further between.
With every week and every month, Sierra's body strengthened, her health improved, and her heart felt just a little lighter underneath the burdens she carried. By the time the first buds crept to life on the cherry trees, she finally felt safe enough to let down her guard. With the onset of warmer temperatures, however, came new challenges...and a familiar threat on the horizon. Up on the Lookout, that threat seemed miles away – inevitable and unavoidable but somehow less imminent. Up there, surrounded by clouds and sealed off from the world below, it felt like nothing could possibly harm her. Confidence like that, unfortunately, often led to recklessness; Sierra, if she was anything, was not reckless. Recklessness was Rio's flaw, not hers.
Rio...Rowan...be safe...please be safe.
Late March – Orange Star High School – Lunchtime
Gohan knew little about the student addressed as "Stone Rowan" but what he did know made him nervous. She fit with the rest of the class as well as a rusty hatchet fit with a chef-grade cutlery set. She rarely chatted with other students during breaks, instead, burying her nose in a book and eating her lunch alone at her desk. She was quiet, she kept to herself, she belonged to no optional clubs and always left the moment the students were dismissed for the day. Strangest of all, at least to the class gossip-mongers, she always kept her right arm covered to the elbow, whether with long sleeves or a cloth armband. Despite the rest of the class's fascination with Stone's...otherness...she seemed to have less regard for them than a Namekian might have for Earth music. ...Dende aside.
At the beginning of the term, Gohan was content to ignore the Stone girl as she seemed to wish. Then he came across another person named Stone and who spoke with the same brassy drawl, and now, his curiosity wouldn't leave him alone. The two females looked nothing alike—on the surface, they were practically opposites!—but he wasn't fooled by appearances. Ki didn't lie. Then again, the odds of two unrelated women with the same last name being on Dende's radar at the same time were low enough for suspicion.
"You want me to...what?" The young guardian's eyes dropped from his, searching the clouds below the Lookout for something he wouldn't name. "Dende—" A rush of words cut him off.
"—I can't tell you why, Gohan." Dende's fists clenched at his sides, one white-knuckling his wooden staff and the other half-buried in the cream and burgundy muslin of his robes. "I need you to just trust me...please. Something's coming, she's not...safe...just...watch out for her? Please?"
By the entryway to the Lookout's inner chambers, a familiar face emerged from the shadows—Sierra paused in the doorway, eyes fixed on Gohan's as if waiting for his answer. She surely meant no harm but her scrutiny made his skin prickle in warning. He couldn't fight the suspicion that she, too, had a stake in this... whatever it was that Dende wouldn't explain. Gohan thought it over, rolling his suspicions around as if trying to identify the flavor of a jawbreaker packaged as "mystery," then nodded; if his impression of Dende's words had a flavor, it would probably be 'Bullshit.'
Dende's eyes lifted to his, a curious blend of worry and exhaustion. Bullshit or not, Gohan had his answer. "I wish you'd tell me what's going on, but you can count on me." From the shadows, Sierra blinked—her oft-blank face softened the slightest bit—she gave a small nod. Without a word, she faded away into the shadows of the Lookout's inner sanctum.
A forced cough broke Gohan from his pondering; Erasa shot a pointed look at Videl, who seemed on the verge of snapping at him. "Did I miss something?" he asked folding up his sandwich wrapper with a sheepish wince. Videl rolled her eyes and motioned for Erasa to continue. Slowly the conversation picked back up around Gohan but eventually his eyes meandered back to the redhead by the door. This time she wasn't alone—three other students hemmed her in against the desktop. Purintā, Stapura, and Saschelle weren't the friendliest or most studious sorts and, from what he could see, they were on the prowl for their next stepping stone. Gohan cringed the moment he caught the pun in his musings; that was awful.
"What's the point, anyway?" Sharpner's unexpected demand broke Gohan's train of thought.
"The…point of what?" Gohan asked with a wince. Sharpner sniffed and gestured to the redhead by the door.
"Stone," the blond grunted leaning his chair back on two feet and propping his on the desktop. "Everyone knows she has a tattoo, so why does she bother hiding it?"
"She has a what?" Gohan burst out and turned to study Rowan's cloth-wrapped right arm in open disbelief. Now that he thought about it, he could see faint traces of darker color showing through the thin white cloth of her uniform shirt. From the blank stares of his friends, he slipped into English again without his notice. That explained the angry flush on the redhead's cheeks. "Okay," he muttered turning back to his friends, "so she has a tattoo and she keeps it covered. What's it matter?" Someday it would be nice for the are you an idiot? stares from his classmates to not make him feel like an idiot.
"She got it at sixteen," Erasa hissed. "There was a huge fiasco at her old school when she showed up after summer break—Saschelle said her cousin at West City High told her Stone went on vacation in another country just to get tattooed!" She waited a moment for the unspoken to register. No such luck.
"It's illegal to tattoo a minor, Son," Sharpner huffed.
"Stone broke the law for that tattoo," Erasa added, "and if the rumors are right, it's just a bird! How on earth could that have been so important to her that she'd break the law for it?"
Gohan thought about it a moment while idly munching on his third fishcake of the day. In the background, Erasa's disapproving muttering droned on—something about body art being shunned by polite society, and how anyone with a tattoo was banned from many establishments on sight. Somewhere in the blonde's rambling Gohan heard the words wabori, youbori, and Yakuza, but it wasn't enough to draw his focus away.
Over by the door, Saschelle kicked her attitude up a notch. "Are you rude or hearing impaired?" she taunted Stone, then added in a singsong tone, "Gai…jin…san?" With that one word, the entire classroom went completely silent; every head turned to the standoff by the door, every voice silent with bated breath. Even Gohan knew this was a horrible breach of etiquette, and he grew up in the backwoods!
Rowan slowly lifted her eyes from the pages of her book to the sneering brunette leaning against her desk and up in her face. Her nostrils flared as she sucked in a steadying, calming breath then slowly expelled it. Gohan tensed, his mind racing for a way to break up the imminent fight without hurting someone or exposing his true power. "Your bad score in English Conversation is not my fault," Rowan reminded in blunt, somewhat formal, and entirely unimpressed Japanese. "If you focus on study as much as you make fun of me, you will improve your grammar." Sharpner whistled under his breath. Erasa tittered at the zinger. Saschelle's face turned red, then scarlet, then—yes, Gohan realized with a wince, crimson with rage.
"Her grammar is fine!" Purintā snapped at the redhead. "Your English does not make sense!" Rowan rolled her eyes with a dismissive snort and began packing away the remnants of her lunch.
"Your grammar is terrible, and I can prove it." She shoved her lunch bag into her desk. "Grammatically correct," she said, then switched to English, "Get out of my face. Not grammatically correct: Dicks you are being," she warned in a ridiculous nasal tone that reminded Gohan of some movie he couldn't recall the name of.* "Stop you should, before slapped you get. Now leave me alone."
Barely suppressed sniggering erupted following the deadpan addition, but Gohan just felt confused. "Hey, I've got it!" Sharpner grinned as Rowan returned to her book with no more regard for the three simmering bullies stomping away. "Maybe Stone knew getting a tattoo would make people think she's yakuza and she did it so people would leave her alone!" Videl pinched the bridge of her nose at the remark.
"Sharpner," she grumbled, "that makes even less sense than when you said aliens blew up the moon." Unseen by his classmates, Gohan sank into his chair; of all of Sharpner's hairball conspiracy theories, why'd he have to get that one right…
The back of Gohan's neck prickled—instinct bred from years of intense training urged his eyes to the culprit. Green eyes—too narrow and slanted for a Westerner but too viridescent to blend in—met his from under side-set carrot-colored bangs. What purpose hid behind that stare—question or condemnation? Though the chattering of the classroom's occupants continued in a sort of distant droning, the air stilled, buzzing with palpable tension. Something was going on here; something wasn't what it seemed and he wanted answers. In the time it took him to squeeze Videl's hand in warning and reassurance, the classmate called Stone dismissed him by turning back to her book. Her eyes were guarded and her shoulders tight; just like the other person called Stone, she'd closed herself off without so much as a word. Still…
Her name is Rowan and she's...she needs help. Please, while you're around her, watch her back.
Gohan still wondered what interest Dende had in the stranger's safety but his answer remained the same. As much as he was able, he would protect her...but from what?
Early morning, Family Friday
To the average person, their portion of the world can be boiled down to familiar landmarks that make up their home. Without those landmarks, losing one's way was a given. This man wasn't an average person—the whole world was his home and he knew enough landmarks to make his way to anywhere from anywhere. The ceaseless din of West city lay some fifty kilometers to the northwest. Due west, the Basil fields of Nicky Town and a small orchard of blooming Mandarin trees perfumed the wind ruffling his hair. —until the Northeastern-bound wind shifted to straight north.
Rotting compost and old manure. It wasn't what he'd want his home to smell like, for certain. This, however, wasn't his home...he was just...guarding it, if one wanted to be technical about it. This home was old and nothing remotely traditional, and the grounds and floor-plan were entirely too cluttered and Western for his tastes. The greenhouse out back rattled and creaked when heavy winds blew and the fertilizer bins reeked when the sun shone; rain left the gravel driveway impassably muddy and heaven forbid any more snow should fall. He gave up shoveling anything other than the front steps after the third blizzard. Not his house; not his problem. At least the owner of said home had plenty of decent coffee. Scruffy at the cheeks and tousel-haired from sleeping on the hammock in the clay-tiled sunroom, he stood in the too-fancy kitchen in boxers and a borrowed bathrobe waiting for his coffee to brew.
A sound of tires on gravel out front froze him in place. The weekly grocery delivery was already past—he expected no one anytime soon—the only people liable to invite themselves out here without warning were just the sort he was supposed to deter. Grey eyes narrowing, he dug under the borrowed robe for his sidearm. A soft thump rang out at the front door—a single knock?—followed by the departure of the vehicle. Tense as a bowstring poised for release, he crept to the entryway, flattened himself to the wall, and watched the front porch, only to grunt and jam his weapon back in its holster.
On the still-wet front porch, yet another plastic-wrapped newspaper lay waiting for a subscriber who wasn't home.
Again, Sierra woke to the deafening screaming of an entire city's worth of internal monologues.
Why does my pillow smell like feet?
Can't he stop snoring for one night?
...I'm tired of being an adult. Forget getting up. My boss can bite me.
Hana, your breath could kill. Please don't kiss me until you've bru—aw, nasty!
...my ass hurts. Why am I awake? -and why is there a fuckboy in my bed?!
Sierra's head hurt. As every morning prior, and likely every morning to follow, she was thankful that a certain percentage of the population was restricted to abstract thinking; they were the only sort who didn't leave her aching to carve her brain right from her skull with an ice-pick.
Another night, another morning…another day of worrying, tutoring, wondering, aching, and wishing she had some idea of how to solve the predicament she put herself into. As she eased herself to the edge of the too-soft mattress, one particular voice stood out amidst the din:
She didn't even cancel her blasted newspaper before running off to die. What is it with these Stone women? They have no sense!
Sierra's fingers stiffened in her sleep-frizzy hair; her eyes flew open wide, flinched closed at the bright light coming in through the uncovered window, then eked open again, focused on the southwestern corner of the room. That voice...that affectionately insulting nickname...the direction it came from and the distance from which she felt it… It was impossible...but she'd not been wrong yet...had she? She pulled a borrowed robe on over her frumpy cotton PJs and yanked the tie closed, shoved her feet into some borrowed house slippers, and stalked out of her borrowed bedroom as fast as her aching body could carry her.
The phone rang for what seemed like an eternity, and she passed it by pacing around Bulma's fancy kitchen. Finally, someone picked up. "Nani," a smoke-raspy voice on the other end muttered to someone nearby, then grumbled in muffled English, "what the blazes?! It's arse-crack-thirty in the morning!" Sierra waited...and seethed. Were she in the room, Sierra knew exactly what she'd see: two redheads—one carrot, one auburn, the first female and the other male—lounging around in a state of scandalous undress, likely accompanied by some flexible woman they brought home from the club the night before. The only variable worth considering was which woman was the more hungover. After some more muttering and a cleared throat, the silence broke around a carefully polite, "Anatahad—"
"It's me, Randy," Sierra interrupted, "and it's Sunday, so quit pretending I woke you up." The line went completely silent—so silent Sierra almost wondered if it was disconnected. The moments ticked by, each accompanied by another onslaught of still-painful impressions from the people of West City and the surrounding area. She dug her fingertips into the space between her eyebrows, willing the pressure to bring silence. Finally...
"Well, if it isn't Stone Sierra Daiyu. Back from the dead already?"
"Cut the crap, Randy Silver," Sierra shot back, intentionally flipping Randy's given name before her family name. She was already tired of the British-expat's games. "Why is your brother-in-law complaining about me in my house?" A choked laugh punctuated the silence—Randy's husband Silver Nikkeru, from the sound of it—and a grumbled insult answered him.
"Your house?" Randy's tone indicated a complete lack of interest but Sierra knew better. "You don't mean the house you ordered me to sell, do you?" Sierra winced. "The house with enough decent land tied to the deed to build a supermarket?" She flinched. "The house with an orchard, a full-sized greenhouse, an outbuilding, and enough room for, oh, say, a single mum and her teenage daughter with room to grow should aforementioned single mum ever manage to get her knickers unbunched and marry?" That one didn't merit embarrassment.
"The money from the sale was s'posed to go to Rio an' Rowan!"
"As much as Rio's paying for that duplex," Randy drawled, "why not just leave them the house and be done with it?" She must have interpreted Sierra's silence correctly because she quickly followed with, "didn't think of that did you?"
Sierra's fingers tightened on the phone receiver, her knuckles paling from tension; not for the first time, she missed the fidgeting outlet phone cords offered. She closed her eyes, sucked in a deep breath through her nose, held it a moment, then slowly let it out again. There was only one possible way to answer Randy's unspoken question: truthfully. "...I...it...turns out I...wasn't...thinking," she admitted under her breath. "...at all."
"You don't say." Randy, though rude even on a good day, at least didn't voice any of the insults Sierra was expecting. Instead, she huffed, "you can be such a twit, I swear." Sierra didn't have it in her to argue; instead, she slumped against the wall and stared at the expensive tiled floor. Perhaps Randy recognized her friend's silence for what it was because her voice when she spoke again was gentler and void of blame or bile. "We knew you weren't thinking clearly, Dai, and you weren't nearly ready to listen to us...but you weren't ready to die yet, either. The house is still yours. Kuikku's staying to deter squatters and thieves. —alone," she added as if realizing Sierra's next worry. "Violet's still watching the old base; they won't leave any mystery stains on your sofas."
"My sofas?" Sierra shot back. "We hauled those to the storage locker—everything's in that locker! I sent Rio the key! How—"
"You didn't turn up dead so we put all your junk right back where it belongs...in your house. When you're ready to crawl out of your pity-pit and go home, it'll be like you never left."
When Bulma ventured to the kitchen in search of coffee, she found Sierra staring at the beeping phone receiver with some sort of emotion in her eyes—something somewhere in the messy tangle between worry, anger, surprise, and relief. Whatever it was, for that sort of emotion to actually show up on Sierra's otherwise inexpressive face, something serious must have happened. "Is everything alright?"
Sierra came back to herself with a series of rapid blinks followed by a muttered oath. "Of course," she drawled setting the handset back in its cradle and stalking over to the coffee maker. "My house wasn't actually sold, there's a mercenary living in it, and he's bitching because I forgot to cancel my paper. Everything's just peachy."
Then again, perhaps Sierra's family just wasn't used to the sort of threats Bulma's family faced several times a year.
Dusk, a neighborhood in southern West City
Last Spring, this would have been a day of celebration, laughter, relaxation, and good food with great company. After all, this was Family Friday – the day Sierra, Rio, Rowan, and Cordelia all gathered for a big meal and bonding. That, however, was before Sierra started falling apart – before she took off without warning, left her family to pick up the pieces, then refused to come out of hiding.
Now, this was just another Friday to the Stone family, and for Rio and Rowan, it passed in the same manner as any other Friday. Sue dropped Rowan off in Sataan City for school, then after classes were over, Rowan took the bus back to West City to work her shift as the body shop's evening detailer. After work, they returned to their little duplex in the suburbs between both cities and Rio buried herself in working on Rowan's car 'in secret.' After a couple hours of homework and a little housework, Rowan searched for some way of feeding the two of them—as anything Rio cooked was likely to land them both in the hospital—but ultimately just ordered takeout or delivery.
That one minor change in routine was where everything fell apart. A bag of boxed Thai hanging from one tense arm, Rio stood frozen in place on the porch, her eyes locked on the ominous white envelope in their mailbox. The world was about to come crashing down around her family yet again. There was no return address and no stamp or postmark, and it was addressed to "Stone Ria & Biers Rowan."
She knew the sender, she knew their handwriting and the way they addressed the letter, and she knew just what this meant. She startled back to herself and loosed a silent snarl. Staring at the letter wouldn't accomplish anything and they were undoubtedly on a time limit – as if this very situation ever happened with much time for preparation! She snatched up the envelope and stormed back inside.
At the dated Formica-topped table in the small, equally dated kitchen, Rowan jumped at the sight of her mother tearing through the front door like the IRS was on her heels. "What happened?" she demanded setting down the disposable dinnerware. Rio's only answer was to chuck the letter onto the tabletop with the delivery on her way through. Confused and worried, Rowan gingerly peeled open the envelope and lifted out the single sheet of folded loose-leaf paper; a moment later, it fell from her hands and she launched herself out of her chair with a choked cry, backing away from the words it bore. No matter how she prayed she was mistaken, the words remained the same.
The wolf is coming to call.

Up next: Piccolo's Spidey-senses are tingling, Rio is a mess, Dende gets in it even deeper, Dakota meddles, Colonel Kuikku Silver is a very deadly beefcake, history repeats itself and the past never stays buried, and shit...hits...the...fan in The Wolf is Coming to Call.
Notes
Tattoos in Japanese culture – everything stated here is true and then some. Considering some states in the US will tattoo as young as sixteen with parental consent, Rowan's choice wouldn't be as big a deal if she hadn't gone back to Japan.
The Silver family all have names from words connected with silver. Randy's husband Nick, or Nikkeru – nickel silver, which is often used to imitate sterling silver in inexpensive products. (I may have referred to him previously as "Rick" in error.) The mercenary-in-retirement Kuikku – quicksilver, an obsolete term for mercury; Kuikku is mildly toxic, dangerously intriguing, and a slippery old bastard. Lastly, unseen for now and overall unimportant, Nick and Kuikku's father Sutaarinngu – Sterling silver is an alloy of 92.5% silver by weight; it's considered fine enough for jewelry but is strong enough for flatware, and was previously used for currency.
Yes. This WAS Rowan doing her best "Master Yoda" impression to make her point. According to something I heard (but cannot verify), if sentences are translated from Japanese word-by-word instead of phrase-by-phrase without proper rearranging, the sentences would sound like something Yoda would say. I don't know if this is right but it made me laugh.

* KT Tunstall, "Black Horse & The Cherry Tree"
- 9
- 10
- 11
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Serendipity: Shifting the Paradigm