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
- 12
- 13
- 14
I'm finally back in my account!!! XD Yep, I've been locked out this entire time. The good news is this means y'all get a new chapter. Hope the wait was worth it!
Trigger warning for a moment of nondescriptive suicidal ideation in the flashback.
Suggested listening: The Piano Guys “Perfect,” Evanescence “Missing,” Foo Fighters “Best of You,” Deny “It Only Hurts,” Angelo Badalamenti “Fire Walk with Me”
Where silence speaks as loud as war,
Earth returns to what it was before,
and then you sense a change.*
Shuttered Hearts, Opened Eyes
When following a night of disaster and dread, morning can have a vague blurriness capable of convincing us that the nightmare never happened; Dende woke to such a dawn. Like most sunrises before, Dende sat up, stretched, yawned, and scraped his hand over his scalp, antennae, and face a few times. He scrubbed the grit from his eyes with the heel of a hand, and once he could see straight through the watering of his tired eyes, he stood and stretched again until his back let out a muted crackle. After the routine of dressing, tidying his bed, and blinking too much, he traversed the curtains onto his balcony. There, he froze, stunned, and his mind caught up with his memories.
A lovely young redhead sprawled on the tiles at the edge of the Lookout and stared off into the brilliant colors streaking the eastern sky. A faded fishpond print yukata spilled from her shoulders to the tiles, concealing almost everything from her upper back to the checkered fabric covering her upper legs. Dende couldn't see her face, but her posture suggested she was entirely unafraid of falling or was she perhaps too mesmerized by the view to recognize the risk? No matter what the situation, he knew that hair, that posture, and that person far better than he had any business knowing.
Rowan.
It all came back to Dende with the velocity of a slap. Waking late in the night, finding danger at Rowan’s doorstep, sending Mister Popo to fetch Goku, exhausting himself to make her hear him. Rowan...and Rio...staying… He eeped and crept back from the balustrade. Rowan and her hellion mother were both staying on the Lookout until further notice, and he was in serious trouble with Mister Popo for meddling. What with the scolding awaiting Dende, a small part of him lamented waking early instead of sleeping late and delaying the stress; another part of him, however, was too mesmerized to care either way.
What he told Sierra before—a lot of humans tend to look alike to us—was likely true to most Namekians, but not to him. In all his hours of watching humanity Dende never lost his wonder at their vast differences. His people varied in shape and size, and some had slightly lighter or darker shades to their skin and eyes, but humans—humans, of all beings!—had a surprising variety of features. To his eyes, they were a riotous medley of colors, textures, and characteristics that boggled his young mind and delighted his eyes. He should have known Rowan Stone would be no less vibrant than the rest of her kind. The rising sun set afire the gold and auburn traces in her hair; a stiff breeze sent that hair into disarray, and to his eyes, it seemed as embers disturbed by the wind. If Dende were older and not so sheltered, he might have realized just how over-the-top the comparison was and hidden his face from embarrassment; in truth, though, he was just a teenager, and he was only a fraction less sheltered than Goku was at the same age.
The skin on Dende’s neck prickled, and something in the region of his gut fluttered like some sugary carbonated drink, and since he no more understood it than he understood Goku's obsession with food, he watched. First, he watched out of concern—Rowan was, after all, dangerously close to the edge and presumably as earthbound as the majority of her kind—but protecting soon became studying, and worry became wonder. Before Dende knew what happened, he was leaning on the stone wall with soft eyes and a shy heart, and he had already forgotten Sierra's teasing about guardian-stalking.
Once the sun was beyond the horizon and the birds in Mister Popo's garden were in full song, the strange spell over the Lookout broke. Rowan tucked her fringe behind her ear, scooted backward across the tiles, stood, and brushed off the seat of her shorts and the back of her robe. For a time, she just stood gazing out over the edge and into the endless blue, and without seeing her face, Dende could only wonder what was on her mind. Her home? Her classes? Her absent aunt, violent father, and broken family?
All wondering—in fact, all civilized thought in general—ceased when she swept her sleep-mussed hair up off her neck.
The squeal of a curtain ring on a metal rod split the calm of the morning. Rowan froze, both hands around her ponytail and a hair tie clenched between her lips, and turned from the edge to the silent temple. No threat was visible. Nothing seemed out of place aside from billowing white curtains behind a high and vacant balcony—the same balcony that caught her eye and gave her a feeling of being watched last night.
Maybe Kami was not a morning person? She smiled, huffed through her nose at her silliness, tied off her ponytail, and followed her bare feet back to the room he lent her. Maybe Kami's...disconcerting assistant could point her in the direction of a shower before breakfast.
Almost an hour elapsed before Dende felt safe leaving his quarters, though the why behind that feeling eluded him. Safe from what? Mister Popo’s disappointment? Rio's temper? Rowan's...whatever? He felt well and truly ridiculous, but—and even in the privacy of his thoughts, he could not articulate why—the last felt like the worst threat. During his walk to the kitchen, he found more evidence of the turmoil he brought upon himself. The entire corridor outside the communal bathing facilities was hazy with warm, humid air and a heady perfume of citrus and flowers. A familiar voice echoed in the bathing chamber—soft, clear, and wistful—over the sound of running water.
“—ness lies beyond the clouds...happiness lies above the sky.”
Dende shuddered, sighed, and turned in the other direction. Etiquette aside, maybe he should take his meals in the library for a while. Even if Rowan and her mother weren't frightened by him, he couldn't bet on being able to function like a grown Namekian around Rowan, at least not until he could understand why she made him so nervous.
“...bering those autumn days, but tonight, I'm all alone. Sadness hides in the shadow of the stars...Sadness hides in the shadow of the moon.”
Some friendships grow through mutual respect and affection, some begin with shared experiences, and some follow acceptance due to circumstances; Piccolo and Gohan's friendship centered around violence. Gohan collapsed on his backside in the grass and mopped sweat and blood from his face with a ratty towel. His friendship with Piccolo would make most people question his sanity even without the brutal sparring sessions. Gohan, though? He counted himself lucky to have Piccolo at his back and trusted him with his life, which was why—
“Can I ask a favor?” Piccolo didn’t pull away from his canteen long enough to answer but grunted acknowledgment; Chi-Chi would be appalled at his manners, but Gohan didn't care. “Miss Sierra is supposed to go back up to the Lookout soon, but after last night...well, I’d rather not take her up there this time.” That caught the Namek’s attention. Piccolo corked the canteen and leveled an interrogatory stare at Gohan that the boy couldn’t withstand long. Gohan dragged a hand down his face with a forceful sigh. “Miss Stone and her mother are scary."
“You faced down Frieza without hesitation.” A muscle near Piccolo’s right eye twitched. “You stood your ground against Saiyans, fought androids, and killed Cell, all without running away...and you’re afraid of a couple of human women?”
“Hey, I’m not proud.” Gohan’s joke fell flat. Piccolo gave a growling sigh, eyes trained on the northwestern horizon hidden behind the trees of Mount Paozu. He had spent most of the afternoon shooting accusing glares in that general direction when he wasn't busy beating the life out of his slacking student. Why? What could lie in that direction which could make him so irrationally—oh. Oh. Gohan hid a grin behind his sweat rag. Suddenly Piccolo's nasty temper made so much sense. West City lay in that general direction, and they both knew someone currently residing in West City.
“That woman is your responsibility.” Piccolo’s accusation put a guilty cringe on Gohan’s face. “—a responsibility you chose. You offered to take her to the Lookout every week. Is there any rational reason you should get out of it this time?" As usual, the words Piccolo spoke barely touched everything he didn’t say. Gohan laughed, pulled at his neck, and started sentence after sentence only to change his mind and try again, and all the while, Piccolo stewed. 'You can't tell the damned women are related, can you,' he grumbled at Gohan from the safety of his thoughts. Stone, after all, was not a common name in the country they called home, and though Sierra, Rio, and Rowan all looked very different, there was enough resemblance in the tones and notes of their ki to render the relationship obvious. That Gohan didn't notice this was proof the boy was slipping. "How long will they stay?”
After the long silence, Gohan balked at the question but quickly complied. "They'll stay on the Lookout until the threat against them is gone, however long that takes." Piccolo scoffed and scowled off into the distance. "Dad's going to go pick them up each morning and take them to Ms. Stone’s—I mean Miss Stone’s mother’s—shop in West City, then he’ll take Miss Stone to school. I'll accompany Miss Stone home afterward—”
“—and she can’t fly.”
Gohan winced. “Most humans can’t, remember? She has her driver’s license.” Gohan frowned at the memory of that part of the conversation. I spent a year in America with Abuelita Martinez. Auntie Dai had a real fight with the school when I got back. I had to transfer to another school. The year in America was likely when she got the tattoo everyone gossiped about, but it felt odd that she could sum up in three sentences a year she was still suffering effects from now. “She’ll drive her mother’s car to the shop after classes, and Dad'll take the car to school with her." Piccolo gave no response; he just took another long drink from his canteen, stared into the distance with tired eyes, and waited. “I’m…”
Piccolo met Gohan's eyes, his head somewhat tilted and his eyes without judgment. Sometimes, as silly as it might sound, Gohan felt like, for a brief moment, someone else was seeing with Piccolo’s eyes, hearing with his ears, and speaking with his voice. Piccolo, after all, absorbed Dende's brother Nail on Namek and merged with the last Kami of Earth, though Gohan still wasn’t sure how that worked. In moments like this, when Piccolo seemed less bristly, more patient, and rather unlike himself, Gohan wondered if the spiritual remnant of one of those other Namekians was taking the reins long enough to handle a situation that Piccolo was liable to bungle. “I’m...worried about Dende,” Gohan confessed finally.
“Why?”
Gohan could not meet his friend’s eyes, so he pulled a foxtail from the grass beside his knee and commenced picking out all the tiny seeds one at a time and letting them fall. “Those women...they’re...human. I tend to forget how different we all are to them—Dende, Dad, you, all of us—and humans…." His quiet voice fell to an almost whisper. “Humans...scare easily.”
Though months had passed since the gravity chamber accident, Gohan remembered how Sierra fainted dead away at the sight of Dende after he healed her. Sierra admitted later that it was a result of being overwhelmed by her so-called psychic gift rather than fear—she was entirely unafraid of Piccolo, after all, and, compared to Piccolo, Dende was an overeager socially-awkward puppy. Rowan and Rio had no such gift. With no such way to sense the goodness in Dende’s heart, would they fear him for his appearance? When they discovered that Gohan was only half-human, would they fear him, too? In the Son family, everybody—Gohan's mother and her father aside—was at least half-alien. Would Rio and Rowan fear them, even after everything they had—
“These women...why would their fear matter to you?” With the foxtail in one hand and a loose seed in the other, Gohan thought it over for a moment.
“That girl—Miss Stone—we're in the same class." Gohan recalled the wary expression on Rowan's face a few days before, the bullying he witnessed, the whispers of her tattoo, and the rumors of delinquency. Worst, perhaps, was the look of weary resignation she wore every time she was treated differently from the rest of the class. "She has no friends," he said softly. "She attends only the compulsory classes, no clubs. She isolates herself, and she never talks to anyone but the teachers unless they leave her no choice. That's a lonely way to live.”
“And you want to help.” Piccolo’s tone suggested his eyes were rolled up and trying to vanish behind his heavy brows. Gohan ducked his head, but not out of shame.
“I do want to help, but if she’s just going to be afraid of people I care about—”
A heavy hand atop Gohan's head cut him short; confused, he turned to his mentor. Like before, a strange and transient side of Piccolo broke through the bristle; this side Gohan associated with Kami. The gentle expression, calm eyes, and encouraging, if tired smile looked foreign on Piccolo's perpetually cranky face; that hand ruffling Gohan’s hair, though, was entirely Gohan's mentor. "Whatever happens," Piccolo told him, "happens. Whatever must be, must be."
A relieved grin split Gohan’s face, and Piccolo shoved his hair down over his eyes as if hoping to cover them. Gohan sputtered and flailed, then fell onto his back in the grass. There was the obstinate mentor Gohan idolized. He was starting to worry.
Last autumn
Shadows fill a home once filled with laughter. Sheets cover furniture made by hand. Shelves once full of books, photos, and keepsakes stand empty, and shuffling footsteps and hollow thumps echo on the rugless floors. Even the many potted plants tucked into nooks and crannies and lining the sunny windows look limp and defeated. Pain—agonizing, aching, crippling pain—slows Sierra's feet and fumbles her touch. She can feel her bones shifting against each other with every step, and every few steps, something in the region of her back, knees, or hands pops, freezes, and renders her still and winded. Still, she walks on, from one room to the next and on to the next. After the many years it sheltered her, the house deserves a goodbye.
How did this happen? What could push a bright and talented businesswoman into such a deadly free-fall she would say goodbye to her plants, her home, her friends, and even her life, but not to her family?
Why the hell should I go with you? You’re a grown-ass woman. Go on your own.
Help you? You’re supposed to be helping me!
Dammit, Dai, if ya can’t do your job, why did you even start a business? And don’t give me that bullshit about your back again.
Where were you?! Had a ‘ppointment! You were s’posed be there! Where were you?! Why you always let me down?!
Ma'am? I'm sorry to bear bad news. It's your mother. We had a t—a...tornado...this week. Ma'am...your mother's house was hit. We need someone to—to identify..."
A thousand moments where people let Sierra down. A thousand careless words when she most needed kindness. A thousand crises endured on her own after a lifetime as a crutch for any who struggled to walk. Failing health followed failure, and a crippled body followed crippled relationships. In the case of Sierra Daiyu Stone, this was the recipe for a fall.
Soon, the scene changes—a wild, wooded area instead of a calm and clean home. The rubber-capped end of her cane catches on roots and rocks, but the leaves underfoot soften the stumbles. Overhead, the wind rustles leaves in a glorious autumnal display. A mossy resting place calls her to the base of a tree the Japanese consider a symbol of hope and rebirth. There is some irony here. Ants creep along the upthrust roots; in time, will they clean her bones, or will someone find her body before it could return to nature?
Rio. Rowan. Cor. Will they even notice she is gone? Will they miss her in time? Her head falls back against the tree's fissured bark, eyes lifting to the sky. Something just flew over—it matters not. The dead have no cares. She envies that sort of freedom. She yearns for the liberty of being empty, not only on the surface.
This is the recipe for a fall.
Current day, Capsule Corps
Sierra was not sure when she zoned out. All she knew was her back was killing her, Trunks and Minotia had finished their assigned worksheets, and she could not tear her eyes from the potted plant on the deck outside the lounge. Echinacea Purpurea—purple coneflower, it was commonly called. It was native to the grasslands and glades of the midwest and western United States—including her hometown in the southwest of Missouri—and parts of the plant were a folk remedy for fevers and colds. She rescued it from the Lantana Camara-infested flowerbed once spring hit, cut away the dead growth, and planted it in shoulder-deep sandy soil on the south-side deck.
At the time, she could only shake her head. The lantana roots were so grown around the coneflower’s rhizomes that there was no chance it could have spread if it survived the year. Now the coneflower looked a few shades shy of dead. She saved it from the leeching toxins of the lantana, and the damned thing wilted and would not bloom again. Why? Why would a plant grow weaker when removed from a harmful and toxic environment? It should be thriving, but it was flopping over and giving up!
Across the table, Minotia fidgeted in his seat and Trunks shot him an uncomfortable look, and Sierra glared at the pitiful drooping plant. She could sense the concern and confusion coloring the boys' thoughts. Why does Teacher hate that flower? What did it ever do to her? Yet again, she hated her ability to hear what should be kept secret.
Enough of this nonsense. Sierra closed the lesson plan notebook with a snap that made the two boys jump in their seats. “Trunks,” she said, “I dare say you’ll pass your test. Minotia, well done. That’s enough for today.” The boys did not move; instead, they gawped at her, then each other, then her again, as if they expected a 'gotcha.' She shooed them toward the porch on the other side of the sliding door. “Go play.” That seemed to do the trick because the boys closed their books, tidied their workstations, and hurried for their shoes.
On his way out to the deck, Trunks hesitated and looked back. Sierra was not glaring at the plant outside anymore. She held her left hand in her right, kneading the hollow of her palm and the joints connecting her fingers to her hand. Intermittently she winced and stopped, took a steadying breath, and worked the aching joint a little more slowly until the pinched look in her eyes smoothed again. She corrected their work with that hand; was writing enough to cause her pain? “Miss Sierra?” She paused and turned her eyes to Trunks, professional and blank again. "Are you alright?" he asked, and the warmth in his cheeks made him frown. "Is there anything I can do?"
Trunks was unaware of the horrible night Sierra, her sister, and her niece endured. He did not know that she fought her urge to go to their rescue yet again, held her ground, and fell apart in Tapion's arms on the kitchen floor. Minotia never said a word, Tapion kept quiet, and even Mrs. Briefs, who overheard, hid her concern behind bubbly affection as usual. Trunks did not know that Sierra had a breakthrough, so the fact that he could see a note of surprise on her face, followed by a weak smile, stunned him.
“I'll be fine." She shook her head as if in debate with herself and reached out to brush back his hair. "I'd never have guessed it when we met," she added, "but you are such a kind child." Minotia called to him from the yard below. Trunks fought his embarrassment by grabbing Sierra by the hand and pulling her outside behind him as if she had not just called him out on his true nature. She no longer needed a cane to walk short distances, but she still held the railing like a lifeline and took the stairs one slow step at a time. When she reached the patio, Trunks took off chasing Minotia, and she eased herself onto a lounge chair in the sun. It took a few moments—several long, painful, aching, painstaking moments—to fully stretch out, but finally, she settled.
Again, the wilting coneflower and toxic lantana came to mind. Rio—beautiful, vibrant, toxic Rio—was effectively out of Sierra’s life, so why was she still suffering from her sister’s poison? Why was she so drawn to run to her sister's rescue, even knowing she would only wilt, fade, and die like a strangled coneflower? Sierra recalled Rowan's video call the night before and all their tears, apologies, and reassurances in heartrending detail.
The house is still yours.
Randy said that. Randy always did see right through Sierra's densest moments and her most determined blustering. It made sense in a twisted way that she knew from the start that Sierra was in the grips of a mid-life crisis rather than truly suicidal. Sierra brooded, eyes focused beyond the two boys sparring in the yard as if it was possible to see all the way south to Nicky Town and her sprawling plant-festooned home to its east. With Nick watching the house, she could count on mass casualties when she returned; all his life, all he had to do to kill a plant was look at it. What about Kuikku? Was he trimming the lawn? Did he feed the camellias? Had he turned the water off in the greenhouse over winter, or would she come home to find burst pipes and a mulch-strewn swamp? With Spring underway, it was too late to start the early flowers, but just in time to start the summer seedlings. It completely missed her notice that Kuikku was watching Rio’s house rather than hers, if only for the time being.
When you're ready to crawl out of your pity-pit and go home...
Should she? Could she? Would going home make all her time away—and all her work with that abstract-thinking therapist—pointless? If she went home, could she count on her family to just...give her space while she worked out the rest, or….
...it’ll be like you never left.
The sound of footsteps behind Sierra cut off the circles she was thinking herself in. Vegeta. She may have known him barely half a year, but she would recognize the unique pattern, tone, and color of his thoughts and emotions blindfolded in the dark five miles away. She knew no one else capable of exhibiting equal degrees of pride, sadism, fear, rage, stoicism, and self-loathing, all in the same thought. Sierra turned her head slightly—not enough to see him but enough to acknowledge his presence—and nodded once to encourage him to stay if he wished.
Vegeta stopped a few feet away and, effectively ignoring Sierra’s presence, watched the two children play-fighting. Trunks had the upper hand in strength and power, but Minotia was quicker on his feet and had superior reflexes.
"When'd you realize it was time to stop running?" Aghast, Vegeta turned to Sierra, and it took a moment to sink in that she spoke aloud instead of in her head. Oops.
“Saiyans run from nothing,” he snarled at her, but his thoughts revealed a different story. 'I spent far too long running away,' they said, and, 'how could she know that? Who told her? No—damn her! Damn her and her infernal mind-reading!'
Sierra looked Vegeta dead in the eye; Trunks yelped, and she noticed Vegeta’s eyes dart over to ensure he was unhurt. Even when he felt threatened—and he did see her and her abilities as a threat—Vegeta’s priority was still the protection of his family. “But you did run,” she pushed, “didn’t you.” It was not a question; Vegeta turned back to Sierra with a sour expression. He stewed a while longer, silent.
The silence broke with another voice: up on the porch, Bulma called Trunks and Minotia up for a snack. She noticed Vegeta and Sierra, waved, and turned to go back inside, and every step of the way, Vegeta's eyes were fixed on her swinging hips. Not for the first time, Sierra was impressed that anyone could make the overall aggressive and cynical Saiyan feel so...soft. Bereft of his Bulma, Vegeta stared off into the distance with discomfort practically radiating off him. Sierra watched him instead, carefully peeling through the layers of what she picked up from him until she found the truth. "Trunks was born...Bulma asked you to stay." He bristled, refusing to look back at her. “Then that’s what convinced you?”
Vegeta’s jaw worked around words unsaid, and then... "Why leave when you belong?" He swallowed thickly and resolutely glared out over the sunny grass. Sierra nodded and thought it over.
Vegeta's default was to keep others out, push others away, and, when that failed, put distance between them by force. Bulma might as well have asked him to bring her the moon when she asked him to stay and form a family with her, but he complied, and he had no regrets. Sierra's default was to help those she cared for, protect them from themselves, shoulder every burden, and never let on that she was struggling. Leaving her family behind and not running back to them at the first sign of trouble was the hardest thing she had ever done.
Abruptly, Sierra recalled the video call the night before—Rowan's teary, frightened eyes, her story of the frightening arrival of Robert Biers, and her promise that they were safe. She told Sierra they had found somewhere safe to stay, somewhere Robert could never find them, but she was evasive about the details. Never once in that entire call did Rowan ask Sierra to come home. She commented on the color of the cabinets and the fancy hardware, how different Sierra looked, and everything from their neighbors' noisy dog to Dakota's meddling, but she never once asked Sierra to come back. Instead, Rowan told her to stay safe. It was like she was saying, 'it's alright, I understand. You deserve better than how they've treated you.' It was like Rowan told her, 'take your time, find yourself, just be careful.'
Any other person would suggest Sierra heard what she wanted in that conversation, that Rowan was too upset to communicate in withheld words, but Sierra knew better. Rio's irascibility required one to be cautious with their words to paranoia, and after eighteen years, Rowan could say everything she needed with what she left unsaid. Rowan, if the only one in the family, recognized Sierra's need for space to build healthy boundaries and supported her no matter the cost.
Perhaps…
Sierra tensed. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Vegeta look back at her, concern buried under seven different layers of brass and bluster. This place, in this city in the West, was full of wonderful people she had come to consider friends, but it was not where she belonged. This was not her family. This was not her house. This was not her life.
Kuikku was probably just as deadly to plants as his younger brother.
Perhaps...it was getting time to work on going home.
The Lookout, around 9 pm
‘And the award for most awkward family dinner in the history of ever goes to...us.' Rowan rubbed her hand down her face and eased the bedroom door closed behind her. Her mother communicated mostly in single-word sentences throughout the meal, and Rowan had hardly any responses to give her that did not sound loaded, and dinner…
Well, one thing was clear. Either the Kami was unused to entertaining, or his assistant Popo was unaccustomed to cooking for mortals. Dinner consisted of plain white rice, vegetables, and tofu in some sweet gingery citrus sauce. Rowan’s stomach whimpered at the very thought. Where was the meat?! Were Kamis vegan? If so, why should she have to go vegan, too?! She liked meat!
Rowan shook her head and slid down the door to sit on the floor with her knees bent. Thoughts like that were uncalled-for. She was no spoiled brat, nor was she an ill-mannered guest. Whatever Kami's assistant cooked—she cringed—she would eat it, say it was delicious, and be grateful. At least she could sneak some snacks back up with her after school. Her mother would be distant and bullish, Rowan would be alone most of the time, and the meals would leave her hungry and dreaming of her aunt Sierra’s machaca flautas, but at least she and her mother were protected from her father. That was the priority here, not stuffing her face with seasoned animal parts.
Still…. Rowan blew her bangs out of her eyes and wrapped her bare arms around her legs. Beyond the window, a whole universe of stars slowly drifted by to the tune of intimidating silence. No car horns. No barking dogs. No noise from the washing machine, her mother’s tools, her radio, or even insects outside. There was barely enough wind tonight to disturb the chimes in the garden. It was safe up here, but there was no denying it was lonesome. “Kami…” She stopped, thinking better of bothering him, but before she could backpedal or figure out what she wanted to say, there came the scent of ozone and petrichor and that familiar ringing white noise.
“Good evening, Rowan. How are you?”
Was it just her, or did Kami sound...happy? What could make a Kami happy? Surely being bothered by a needy human was not one of those things. Maybe the Kami liked sad meatless dinners? “Um…” Rowan faltered, then blurted out the first thing on her mind. “Did you gain immortality by surviving your assistant’s cooking?” The voice of Kami—crud, she just admitted to hearing voices—let out a startled laugh. Kamis...snort? That was definitely a snort.
“Mister Popo does not often cook for humans," Kami explained, and Rowan could hear his grin as surely as if she could see it. “Na—I mean, my diet is a bit different than yours. He’s trying his best. I will ask him to collect some groceries tomorrow more fitting human needs.” Now that was a mental image: the walking stereotype assistant picking out noodle cups in a grocery store.
Silence followed Kami’s statement, but Rowan did not feel like breaking it. She had someone to share that ringing silence with; she was not alone, even if she could not see her company. "Rowan? Is something wrong?” She could not force her tongue to answer; instead, she curled into an even tighter ball and hunched over. “You’re homesick. I understand this.” Kamis got homesick?
“I…” Rowan ducked her head to hide her face in her knees. “...yeah.” Her fingers clenched on themselves. "...but...less missing home and more missing…." As she should have expected, Kami filled in the blanks.
“People. You’re lonely.” Rowan nodded, then realized he might not see it and agreed aloud. It said something to Kami's understanding of her situation that he did not ask why she could not seek company from her mother. “Would you…I guess...do you want to…." Even Kamis got tongue-tied when they were nervous? What reason would the Kami have to get uncomfortable? Unless...was he afraid of her? Why would he be afraid of her?
“Can we just...talk? For a little while?”
“I would be happy to talk with you, Rowan Stone.” Rowan never thought much of her name, but in Kami's voice, it really sounded like something special. His voice was as honest as always, too; he left no room for doubt that he honestly enjoyed talking with her, insignificant as she must be.
During their chat, Rowan realized that her collective coping abilities were held together by the equivalent of spit and a frayed shoelace. It was only a matter of time before Rowan, like her absent aunt, broke from the pressure. Talking to Kami, however, made her feel lighter than she had in years. He had more funny stories to share than she might have expected, and he never took over the conversation when she inevitably got excited and rambled in circles. If anything, every time she realized she was rambling and apologized, she could hear a grin in his voice when he told her he did not mind.
Kami told her of watching the seasons unfold below and witnessing humankind's progress. He shared stories of worlds beyond Earth and the people who called those worlds home. In Kami's voice, Rowan could hear fascination, excitement, and sometimes loneliness. She wondered how it must be living up on this isolated island in the sky, alone except for his assistant, unspoken to apart from the prayers of people who wanted their hands held, watching the world go by below without him. No wonder he sounded so disheartened the night before.
Rowan, in turn, told him about her life—her chores at home, her job, and her favorite courses at school and the ones she would be happy to see banned from the curriculum. She told him about her classmates—the ones who were cruel and the ones who were, at least, not outwardly so—and the teachers, too. She told him funny stories about her relatives and reminisced on times before everyone was so separated. Aunt Cordelia's dog, Ralph. Aunt Dai's prejudice against frozen vegetables. Auntie Dakota's perpetually frizzy hair and oft-scorched fringe. Rio's short-man issues. Abuelita Martinez's scarred hands and warm smiles. Grandfather Stone's fear of spiders, and Obaa-san Makoto’s affinity for spicy foods. Uncle Nick's ability to kill any plant just by looking at it, Auntie Randy's inappropriate jokes, Great-Auntie Constanza's affinity for everything John Deere, no one was left out. It might be Rowan was imagining things, but she could swear Kami went quiet every time Sierra came up in conversation; this was likely only because he knew Sierra was missing and how much Rowan missed her.
All good times must end, unfortunately. After an amusingly earnest debate over whether or not goldfish could dream, Kami sighed. Rowan stilled. “Rowan…” He sounded like he would rather not say what he had to say. “It’s getting late. You have school tomorrow, don’t you?”
“School…” Rowan grimaced at her pile of books and the unfinished homework tucked in them. “...right…that is a thing that exists.”
“It’s alright. We can talk more tomorrow…." Rowan could hear a smile again, and this one sounded reassuring. She wondered what his smiles looked like, the face-splitting grins, humoring tilts, and even this one that made her feel like a child. “Anytime you need to talk, I’ll be here. Try to get some sleep, okay?”
They bid one another goodnight, not like new friends, but like what they were: an anxious precocious teenager and an unseen all-seeing guardian deity who wanted to help her. With Kami's departure went that white noise Rowan was starting to associate with comfort, and again, all Rowan could smell was the gardenia and greenery from the walls and garden outside. She changed into her night clothes without ever looking at them, turned down the blanket and sheet on her bed, and turned out the light.
Instead of sleeping, however, Rowan found herself standing at the window staring at the stars. Kami described so many different civilizations beyond their galaxy. Apelike warriors who loved nothing more than fighting deadly opponents. Avaricious reptilian dictators who roamed the stars and thought only of power and prestige. Peaceable green-skinned people who spent their lives planting trees. Did any of those civilizations look up and see the same stars Rowan did now? Could any of their youth say that they talked with gods?
Though she said she would try to sleep, Rowan felt too restless to comply. She shrugged on her robe over her night clothes, smiled at the bright goldfish nestled between the water lilies, and wandered barefoot out the door. Outside, it was not so quiet or still; crickets sang an ode to the gentle breeze, and the chimes rang in harmony. Rowan tilted her head back and sucked in a breath of gardenia and greenery, and sighed it back into the world. This was what she needed. This was the calm presence she was looking for.
Between the towering pillars of the darkened sanctuary, Rowan froze, ducked behind a column, and peered from behind it. She was not alone—while perhaps not for the same reasons, someone else took to wandering in the night. A little late, Rowan noticed a familiar sound and scent among the rest—white noise like a distant and droning bell, ozone, and petrichor. Rowan could hardly believe her eyes.
Through the towering palms, the moon and stars cast light and shadow over every flower in the secluded garden. Beside a hibiscus in full bloom stood—well, Rowan was not sure exactly what he was, but she knew he was a person. Eyes closed and head bowed, the stranger stood alone, silent and still. Every inch of his skin was green—a rich, grassy green, from the top of his hairless scalp to the hand clasped around a rough wooden staff too tall for him. He wore a long draping robe that hid all but the most obvious of his features. A pair of fleshy antennae hung from his forehead, twitching as his expression ran a gamut of emotion. Serene, troubled, worried, helpless, then, finally, heartbroken. Rowan watched the litany of emotions cross his face, unable to move and unsure if she was still breathing. She should not be seeing this. She knew as surely as she knew the sky was blue that she should not be witnessing this.
No mortal was ever supposed to see a god, after all.
The sound and smell faded; as they did, the man in the garden opened his eyes. He sighed, clenching his fingers around his staff, and slumped in defeat. Rowan had believed she was fooling herself by thinking Kami was young, but now, she was sure of it. He looked almost her age, all but in the eyes; even from this distance, she could tell he had seen far more than any teenager should. This person—this inhuman young man—had to be Kami. Those green-skinned people he told her about—was Kami one of them? Were they all Kamis? Is that where Kamis came from? Were they just imported to whatever planet needed a higher power to torment? Wait—did he plant all the trees on the floating island? Did he have a literal and figurative green thumb?
He was…. Rowan swallowed, and her face crumpled up in an awkwardly wiggly and squashed grin. He was cute. Seriously cute. Like take me to prom and spit on bullies with me cute. Unaware of Rowan's hormonal musings and moral crisis mere yards away, Kami rubbed the side of his jaw. “Cancer.” He shook his head. “...and so young...I wish…”
He stopped, looked up to the sky, and turned slightly to the south. His eyes—black as ink but undeniably gentle—followed a familiar line of stars to something Rowan could not see and shook his head. "Great Elder," he said louder than before, “the people of this world suffer so much and there is rarely anything I can do about it. I can't stand being unable to help. It hurts too much." He paused as if listening to someone else speak.
Rowan heard only her heart beating in her ears. For-bidden—For-bidden—For-bidden.
"No." Kami shook his head. “As hard as it is to endure, I don't wish to become dulled to it. Compassion is not a weakness. If I felt no compassion, how could I guide these people? How could I fulfill my duties as their guardian?" He looked down as if considering what his unheard conversation companion said, then shook his head. "I don't know either, Great Elder. Maybe that question does not have an answer."
Without warning, a purple blush burst across his cheeks, and his eyes darted back to the sky. "How did—no." He rubbed his neck and stared at the tiles beside his feet. "It should not surprise me. You keep watch on me as I watch my people. She…"
Wait. She?! Rowan gaped.
"The...the mortal girl...I…." Kami cringed up at the stars as if confessing to some horrible sin. “...intervened? —she was in danger, Elder! She could have been killed! And—and I was already involved, her aunt—yes.” Was this what Rowan looked like when her mother chewed her out? “That one. There is progress, but it's...not time yet. Well...she's…."
It would not take a genius to recognize that this she was different from the other. When Kami spoke of Rowan's aunt, Sierra, he looked half-panicked and full worried. This person, instead, darkened his cheeks, crinkled his lips into a wiggly sort of smile, hunched his shoulders, and sent his eyes darting around for an escape. Nope. Scratch that. Kami, sacrilege or blasphemy though it might be, was freaking adorable. Then….
“She’s terrifying,” he admitted. “...and interesting...and funny…” He swallowed loudly. “...but more terrifying than anything else.” Ouch. “But that's not—I mean, how is brother Scargo?" The attempt at deflection failed—not because it did not work, but because the answer made him look lost and vulnerable again. "He...he has...? I never—he never told me! Why—" He stiffened, and right before Rowan's eyes, he looked like a forgotten child: eyes downcast, head down, defeated. "...yes, Elder. I understand. Things do come up sometimes. We will talk ag—yes. Tell everyone I miss them. Goodbye.”
Kami turned away from the stars and wandered closer to the temple. Just as Rowan started to panic and consider retreat, Kami took a seat on a stone bench beside a dim lantern and watched the insects circle. “Have I really grown so far apart from my family?” he asked a pale green moth that lit on his staff and crawled down. This time he was not talking to his unseen elder; he let himself finish his sentences without backtracking. This reconsidering and rewriting was a habit Rowan was guilty of, too, especially around her mother. "Scargo partnered and planning a family...Kahnk training an apprentice...Elder Moori busy with plans…” He rubbed his head with a frown. “The harvest must be on the way, too. I wish I could visit them, if only for a day.”
Rowan hesitated, torn between hiding, fleeing, or damning the consequences and going out to comfort him. Only the memory of his tired voice the night before held her back. She should not see him. Well, she saw him, but he would probably be upset if she intentionally went against his orders. Instead, she watched him from the darkness, clutched the pillar for strength, and soaked in every forbidden detail of the teenage deity who deemed her frightening but worth saving.
“What would you do?" Kami asked the moth clambering over his uplifted knuckles. “Would you leave yourself open to the hurts of the world to be a good guardian...or would you protect yourself from those hurts and fail to support your charges? Can there be a healthy in-between?" The moth, being an insect, said nothing, only waggled its feathery antennae at him. Kami rolled his eyes and sighed. "Why am I asking you for advice? You’re a bug. You hatch, breed, and die, all within a month. You have no concept of morality." As if offended, the luna moth fluttered away and left Kami staring off into space.
Rowan caught a glimpse of the brightening horizon and, reluctantly, crept back inside to attempt some sleep. With every step, her mind reeled, and her feet wandered. All she had wanted was to calm her restlessness with some stargazing; instead, she witnessed Kami. She could hardly believe it.
He looked and sounded as lost and lonely as she was.

For full Notes, view on AO3, otherwise, here are the highlights
Rowan's song - "Ue Wo Muite Arukou (Sukiyaki)."
This is the recipe for a fall - After everything that's happened since 2019, this has popped into my head with some regularity. Another family death. Another health crisis. Another relationship hurdle. Another moment when I'm hurt and taken advantage of by people I should be able to trust...f*ck if this isn't the recipe for a fall from grace.
Kahnk - Nope, you haven't forgotten a character. He's mine; he's a healer, survivor of the massacre on Namek, a little older than Dende and Scargo, and he'll play a part much later on.
Luna Moths - symbolize transformation, transience, leaving the past behind, vulnerability, determination, intuition, faith, the brevity of life, and finding light in the darkness. Also, whenever I have the fortune of seeing Luna moths circling the streetlights, the first thing that pops into my head is “aLiEnS!1!”
- 12
- 13
- 14
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Serendipity: Shifting the Paradigm