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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
- 8
- 9
- 10
FYI, while there are errors, I'm still really stinkin' proud of how that first scene plays out emotionally. This chapter is when I started realizing, "hey, I'm getting better at this!" ...the irony is it took passing the big Three-Oh and marrying a guy who doesn't read to realize my college writing needed serious rehab. Ouch.
Trigger warnings for this chapter: some violent imagery, references to abuse, spoilers for later seasons of Dragon Ball and Dragon Ball Z: Wrath of the Dragon.
Suggested Listening: RUSH "Open Secrets," Toad the Wet Sprocket "Come Down," Linkin Park "Easier to Run"
How can you see into my eyes like open doors?*
8: Failure and Family
Screams fill the air – the terrified pleas of a city in peril. Thunder follows the screams – not, not thunder, concussions, something large and heavy impacting the ground. Tremors shudder through the earth as a sea of color floods the fractured streets. In every direction the view is the same – bright-haired Konatsians running for their lives, the dead left behind with the dying.
An unearthly bellowing deafens – the Nightmare spreads its wings under the crimson sky – all hope is lost.
As always, the first sense to return was sensation itself—pain from stiff joints, pressure from gritted teeth, soreness from heaving lungs and a pant-raspy throat. After that sense returned others quickly followed—first the sound of his own hoarse breathing and emasculating whimpers, then the light perfume of citrus, nutmeg, and lavender potpourri, and the sour taste of his own morning breath. Finally, his salt-crusted eyes pried open and the final sense returned—moonlight shone through the windows, painting the room silver between the shadows.
For a moment, it was all Tapion could do to just exist. The nightmare—no, memory—still ran rampant through his mind just as it did every time it troubled his sleep. Half-expecting the towering monstrosity to pop out of the shadows and stomp on him, he scanned the room from the safety of the cushioned window-seat he folded himself into just hours before. Only stuffed animals lurked in the dark corners—no breath befouled the air but his own—Hirudegarn, the monster in his past, was still in the past and only memories remained. He slumped over feeling smaller than ever before. Memories…how could anyone defeat an assailant that stalked them from the grave?
His breathing settling, he pried his fingers loose from the soft fabric of his tunic and brushed his sleep-rumpled hair out of his eyes. As so often before, the cold metal at the back of his skull gave him pause. The golden bands he and his brother wore marked them as destined for the service—if the Kashvar hadn't brought their war to Konats, Tapion and Minotia would still have become warriors, albeit when each reached their majority. Minotia. A shaky breath rattled in his lungs as he focused on the bed just within reach—or, rather, the spiky pink hair peeking up beyond the colorfully striped comforter. No whimpers or cries met Tapion's ears; Minotia was several years his junior, still a child thanks to their time in the music boxes, but the elder was the one plagued by nightmares. How that realization made him cringe.
He carefully unfolded himself from the window-seat, grimacing at the stiffness in his back and knees, and crept out the door. He stopped by Trunks' room on the way to the kitchen, more out of habit than because he worried for the boy's safety, but quickly found himself in the kitchen. Just through the doorway, one bare foot frozen on the black and white checkered tile, he froze; he wasn't the only person driven from their rest in the night.
The woman slumped over at the counter was an enigma to Tapion but at the least she wasn't a threat. Sierra wasn't a morning person—she always staggered from her quarters early looking halfway between dead and demonic and had a peculiar habit of sending murderous glares at the morning sun. It wasn't morning now, being barely past three AM and long before dawn, but she looked like she ran a marathon just to reach the cup of tea steaming before her.
Without warning, she stiffened. She turned to warily regard him over her shoulder, unable to lift her eyes any further than his knees, then glanced pointedly at the still-steaming kettle and a second – empty – cup waiting for him. Without ever asking, he knew she picked up his nightmare just like she picked up so many of his other thoughts and feelings. The fact made his blood boil with anger. He was used to his anger at the Kashvar, at the demon they raised, and at himself for still falling prey to old fears, but now he had a new target—he was angry that the scars still tormenting him were yet again affecting others. Despite the rage, humiliation, and exhaustion at riot in his mind, he joined the other at the counter and slumped down on the barstool opposite her. It wasn't her fault she could hear what he wished to keep hidden, nor was it his fault she was woken by his nightmares; what was, simply was.
Sierra said nothing—she just poured him a cup of dark tea smelling strongly of spices, nudged the sugar jar toward him, and brooded into her mug. Normally silence was something Tapion appreciated but this silence was painful in its awkwardness. With a heavy, frustrated sigh he dug his fingertips into the deep crease between his eyebrows in hopes of warding off the building headache. "Say something," he prompted halfway between a whisper and a grumble.
For a while, Sierra refused—she just stared into her tea, furtively glancing up at him while she searched for words that would be honest but hopefully not offensive. "Apparently," she finally attempted under her breath, "I've been an even bigger ass than usual lately." Tapion's clenched eyes opened and fixed on her in confusion. Wait…was she…yes, if his eyes didn't deceive him, the apples of her cheeks seemed a bit ruddier than usual under the dark bags framing her eyes. She cringed, avoiding his eyes.
"The man who brought me here – Piccolo – he called me a coward," she confessed. "He saw what I didn't want to see—that I was throwin' everything away instead of facin' my problems head on. I decked'im an' went the whole you dunno what I've been through route. If what I've picked up from you an' the others so far is accurate with him as well…" She faltered, grimacing down into her tea. "Well, if that's the case I've got some crow to start munchin' on. –I was mistaken and need to swallow my pride," she quickly clarified when his confusion registered. He considered her explanation in silence; in the time since he met her she'd never once responded the way he expected her to and it never failed to surprise him. No pointless reassurances—no degrading sympathy—no empty promises that time could heal all wounds—now more than ever he wondered how much she drew from her bizarre intuition and how much she drew from experience.
"You don't know Piccolo's story?" he asked once he succeeded in connecting a face to the name. True, he and the much taller man were both aliens living on earth but the major similarities ended there; other than a few brief encounters and run-ins while in the company of the Briefs family, Tapion knew nothing of Piccolo besides his temper and standoffish behavior.
"I see you don't know it either," Sierra sighed in response to his inner musings—musings which, were, as usual, broadcast to her without regard for his wishes for privacy or hers for peace. "I've lived with this—this ability my whole life…it's rare I find anyone I have trouble reading. People are open books to me—Bulma an' Vegeta read like x-rated comic books, Gohan's barely over a five-k word-count, even you an' Dende are somewhere between Jane Austen an' Voltaire. Piccolo…"
She trailed off and shook her head, scrying in her tea for answers. "Piccolo's closed off even to my senses," she admitted. "It's like I'm tryin' to tune an old radio in an underground bunker—every now'n then something slips through—a word, a sentence, maybe even a strong feeling—but otherwise there's only static." A frustrated huff sent her bangs fluttering and she gulped down a drag of tea. "Normally the feelings an' thoughts of others are aggravatingly clear—they register at levels between a whisper an' a scream, an' some're just deafening." A laugh rattled in her chest, more bitter than amused, but her expression never changed and her dark eyes still looked empty and tired. "It's ironic, really…I've finally encountered someone who doesn't wantonly bludgeon me with his internal monologue an' I'm too exasperated to just appreciate the silence."
There it was again—Sierra's unsettling ability to send an otherwise meaningful conversation into a long, awkward silence. …or was that him? Tapion cringed, glancing out the window over the kitchen sink. Dawn was still a long way off but a cold, murky grey clung to the horizon—light pollution from the heart of West City, he imagined. His thoughts wandered as he finally took a sip of the tea his companion poured him—sweet, spicy, and rich, with some earthy undertones and notes of citrus. It was a delightful blend, quite different from the strong, syrupy canned coffee Trunks and Goten once brought him.
Those nights squatting in the abandoned bunker seemed so long ago…why couldn't he move beyond the past? He and Minotia lived and the demon once sealed within them was vanquished…so why did he still feel as though their time together was about to come to an end? Why did he still wake in a cold sweat, lungs burning and heart racing, sure if he opened his eyes he'd find himself alone in the midst of a ruined city full of dead? Why could he still only sleep if Minotia was in arm's reach? Why could he not shake the habit of eating little, sleeping less, and always watching for the threat sure to come? Hadn't he and his brother suffered enough for one lifetime? Hadn't this strange new family—the people who took them in without question—suffered enough over his failures?
At first, Sierra held her tongue—she watched as Tapion drifted deeper and deeper into his own thoughts, every regret, fear, resentment, and dread plain in his deep green eyes and even plainer in the impressions projected to her at an ever-increasing volume. Finally, the onslaught became too much for her to handle; she took a chance, hoping he wouldn't feel violated. "Forgive me for sayin' this, but you're kinda shouting." Her muttered words startled him out of his head and back into the moment. "What you're worried about—that the rest blame you for whatever those memories relate to—the worry's unfounded."
"Unfounded," he scoffed into his tea, and cringed at how bitter and raspy his voice came out. "Right."
"So's that one," Sierra retorted poking him soundly in the arm, then emptied the last of the tea into his mug. "You're embarrassed at how antisocial an' rude ya were when you first arrived here but you've forgotten something important." He looked up, meeting her eyes with one eyebrow arched in challenge. "Most folks are grumpy when they're suffering exhaustion an' stress," she reminded rolling her eyes. "You managed to stay awake for several days straight without killing anyone. If I've gotta go even a night without sleepin', someone's gonna die, an' it's gonna be a closed-coffin funeral if there's enough left for a funeral. From the sound of it, you held yourself together pretty well."
"You call death threats and temper tantrums holding it together?" he grumbled.
"Everyone's an asshole when they're sleep-deprived," she insisted with a shrug. "Heck, I can be an asshole when I'm well-rested. Compared to me, you're a pocketful'a sunshine." Despite Sierra's cursing – a habit he still wasn't very comfortable with but was quickly learning to ignore – he gave a husky snicker at the mental image.
"I find it hard to see how anyone could collect sunshine in their pocket," he rasped, "and even harder to comprehend what I might have in common with it, but it must be entertaining to attempt it. I suspect mind-altering substances must be involved?" For once he could see emotion in Sierra's expression—she practically deflated right before his eyes.
"If there was ever any doubt you're not from earth, that cinched it," she muttered. Suddenly, her eyes went blank, her gaze distant, and her shoulders stiffened; the very picture of alertness, she turned in her seat to stare off down the hallway. Her eyes darted from one portion of the wall to the next as though seeking the source of a sound Tapion couldn't hear. Finally, she found what she sought, flinched, and turned to address him again.
"It's your brother," she explained softly. "He's havin' a nightmare—a nasty one—he needs you." As Tapion lurched from his chair she glanced back in the direction of Minotia's bedroom again; he paused, worried she might pick up something else and he'd miss it. "I'm getting a name but it's garbled—something like Haru da…Oh, right," she trailed off getting her answer from Tapion. She winced at a particularly violent image drifting from the boy's dreams—how could any child handle such violent night terrors?—but forced on what she hoped would resemble a reassuring smile. It probably came out more like a cringe. "Don't worry about the mess, I've got it. Go be a brother."
As he rushed back to Minotia's room, countless questions writhed in the depths of Tapion's brain, accompanied by the phrase that caught him off-guard. Go…be a brother? Most people would have focused on action—go comfort Minotia or go take care of him—Sierra focused on the relationship instead. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was a tell—proof she, too, was once in the position of defending a sibling against their own fears. Rio couldn't handle a repeat the tired woman told him the day before, and now he understood. Demons, after all, weren't only monsters capable of leveling entire planets; sometimes they were deadly mistakes that came back to haunt those who made them.
What sort of deadly mistake could drive a grown woman to hide from her only family?
Capsule Corp, a little after 5pm
It wasn't entirely unheard of for the whole gang to congregate at the Briefs' West City mansion for a gathering; nor, since the gang included several Saiyans, was it unexpected for said gatherings to center around food. Even so, this gathering was highly suspicious.
Only about half of the group was there—Goku and his family, Piccolo and Dende, and the Briefs family were the only people who showed up. With no idea why they were summoned, the group scattered through the Briefs' indoor garden, the two eldest Saiyans stalking the mostly empty buffet tables like a pair of black-eyed buzzards. The appetizers laid out looked delicious, but to a hungry Saiyan, there was just no point in the small finger-foods.
From a familiar seat near a bed of roses, Piccolo scrutinized the people he shared the garden with and considered those absent. For a moment, the two alien brothers were there—the Konatsians Tapion and Minotia—but the moment they recognized the warriors crowded into the garden, the elder bolted toward the kitchen, hauling the younger along with him. Even stranger, that aggravating woman—Sierra—was conspicuously absent. She lived at Capsule Corp now as Bulma's guest and Trunks' tutor so Piccolo expected to have to deal with her at this gathering; instead, she was nowhere to be found. –not that that was a bad thing, of course, Piccolo reminded himself with a forced scowl. He just knew the woman too well—she was sure to be causing trouble wherever she might be, whether that 'trouble' was baiting someone into a fight, pushing herself too hard out of stubbornness, or risking her damn life to prove a point…again.
That settled it—he needed to go find that bullheaded lunatic and drag her away from whatever hazardous situation she built herself. If not, Bulma would have his head when it blew up all over her. His mind made up, Piccolo stalked out of the garden in search of Sierra, refusing to ask himself why he wasn't just sending Gohan to do the dirty work.
When a big family meal is in the makings, the kitchen is the source of all the excitement; that said, Capsule Corp's kitchen was rarely guilty of being exciting. Energetic music set the soundtrack to a much louder cacophony – clanging pans, sizzling meat, beeping machinery and monotone complaints from a few robotic assistants 'borrowed' from Bulma's lab – amidst the frenzy, Sierra was in her element. The sounds, the smells, the blistering humidity filling the air—if there was anything she missed more than her family, it was the organized chaos of preparing their big monthly dinner. Family Friday—a day for the Stone women to gather, talk like a real family, and gorge themselves on comfort food while pretending they weren't silently waiting for the next big fight to start. Sierra would never admit it, but the burning in her eyes had nothing to do with mincing scallions and everything to do with missing memories.
"Really, it's true!" Minotia's shrill insistence tore her from her thoughts. The two brothers showed up almost an hour before wanting to help and were left in charge of the rice-cookers. Tapion slouched at the counter, chin propped on his palm, and a humoring grin on his face.
"Really, Min?" he teased mid hair-ruffle. "Some alien bug ate an entire city and tried to take over the world and no one remembers it? Tell me another."
"No, really!" the younger whined. "Trunks told me all about it – this Cell bug abz-orbed Ginger Town then – then it held a tourney-ment – and that's how Goku died! Again! Stuff like that happens all the time here and people just forget!" Tapion's retort died on his lips at Sierra's unusually blank expression.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I just realized how my family's managed to survive this long," she answered shaking her head. "Sheer dumb luck an' unplanned vacations." Before he could get out another question, Sierra answered it. "My family lived in Ginger Town until I graduated college; one year we got home from vacation an' the place was deserted, but a few days later everythin' was back to normal. Before that, aliens apparently landed an' tried to blow up the planet – we were seein' Ma in America – an' before that, some demon-type creature took over the country an' was working on the world while we were still livin' in Muh-ZUR-ruh!" She scoffed and scraped the minced scallions into a skillet already full of frying rice. "Every time disaster strikes," she summed up as she tossed the contents, "the whole family's out'a town. Tell me that's not freaky."
"I'd call it lucky," Tapion countered pointedly. "The odds of unplanned vacations coinciding with major disasters—"
His words faded into a vague buzz as Sierra's mind wandered. Sure, the official story was that their many sudden trips were unplanned vacations but the truth was anything but. They weren't relaxing…they were hiding. They had forewarning after all, but their warning was more to do with past mistakes than present attacks. She closed her eyes and took a moment to steady her breathing, all the while recalling vividly a sight from her worst nightmares: a tall concrete stoop and a burly man atop the steps, and a much younger woman sprawled motionless on the sidewalk in a rapidly spreading pool of blood.
A gentle hand on her shoulder tore her from the memory; Tapion stood just beside her, lanky arm outstretched and big green eyes worried. "I'm fine," Sierra muttered and went to turn the rice again only to find it burnt to the skillet. The alien beside her arched an eyebrow at her and glanced pointedly at the charred mess in the skillet.
"Tell that to your rice," he suggested with a wry smile. Sierra rolled her eyes and passed the skillet to the nearest bot for disposal, quickly descending on the last platter of tofu. Tapion snatched it right from her hands and set it aside, facing her defiantly. "You're upset," he insisted leaning back against the counter. "You don't have to be a mind-reader to see that." Sierra stared him down a moment as if daring him to demand answers then turned to a pan of simmering beef chunks. She couldn't recall hearing it, but from what she picked up, he sent Minotia out of the room sometime after the rice started charring. Just as well – the memory in her mind was one no child should ever have to form.
"No choice is without consequences," she sighed when it became clear Tapion wasn't going to drop it.
"I assume you're not referring to burning food," the alien deadpanned. Sierra snorted in agreement.
"My sister—Rio—" She faltered. "She made a poor choice when we were young…it eventually tore our family apart. Ever since, that choice routinely comes back to threaten us when—" She cut herself off with a mental shake; that was too personal to share with someone she didn't know well…yet. "We rarely get more than a week's warning and when we do, we have to run. For those times to coincide with disasters and attacks is concerning but it's still just that – a coincidence." Tapion crossed his arms over his chest, waiting patiently for her to continue. She silently turned the beef chunks, poking them to judge their tenderness. Carnita beef, she admitted if only to herself, was supposed to fall apart under pressure; humans were expected to keep it together. Perhaps that was why she clammed up under stress? Even as she wondered, she felt ridiculous—folks weren't food.
"I take it this decision your sister made was a mistake?" Tapion prompted lowly.
"A deadly mistake," Sierra agreed meeting his eyes askance—guarded if not aggressive. "The consequences nearly killed her. We've all made our own choices since then—Rio chose not to move on, Cordelia chose to shut us out, and I—" She cut herself off and shoved the last statement deep down where it couldn't escape. I chose to throw everything away because I couldn't regain what I lost. She tried again. "Stone is known for being resilient but a single crack can render it useless," she admitted. "I'm no better, no worse than anyone else—the same choices available to others are also available to me—but it's not worth the risk of breaking when my family is already broken."
Between the racket of the working bots, a silent tension filled the kitchen. Tapion leaned against the counter, arms crossed, thinking over her words at length; Sierra avoided his eyes, trying to pretend she wasn't picking up every damned word of that thinking. She chose to push everyone away because she wasn't strong enough to keep them together. The accuracy of the statement threw her for a loop; it took practically no time for him to figure her out. She winced, oblivious to their unseen eavesdropper. "Rowan tells me my poker face is next to none," she grumbled at Tapion, "but here we are, you've seen right through it."
Tapion smiled, avoiding Piccolo's eyes. "This coming from a person who can read minds," he answered Sierra as the Namekian slipped away without a word.
The dinner party was winding down by the time Sierra finally emerged from the kitchen. The moment the garden's occupants noticed their hostess, a loud cheer rang out. Arms full of the final platter – fried sesame tofu with hokkien noodles and crispy snow peas in peanut sauce – she froze in the doorway, eyes wide, face blank, and terribly uncomfortable. It took a while to brush off the well-wishes and gratitude of the warriors and their families, and even longer to safely lay down her burden on the tables. By the time she was free, the only thing she wanted was to go hide in the kitchen with a cup of hot tea; instead, her eyes were drawn by a familiar flowerbed, followed by her feet.
Sometime she really should remind Bulma that Lantana was an invasive species; for now, though, she was content to admire the blossoms fading from red to yellow. Was it really only a couple months since she first arrived here? Was it really only a couple months since she gave up, fell apart, dug her own grave, picked herself up, then threw herself headlong into clawing her way back to the surface? Even lost in thought, she still heard the soft footsteps approaching from behind.
"Remembering mistakes?" Piccolo. The husky tease sent a rather aggravating flutter through Sierra's gut – a fluttering she stubbornly blamed on indigestion. A stomachache, after all, was easier to remedy than the malady she truly suspected.
"Of course," she responded with an arched eyebrow. "I should'a clocked you in the teeth instead." Deep, barely audible laughter rumbled somewhere in Piccolo's ribcage and his thin lips parted in a curve too toothy to be a smirk but too feral to be a grin. One long pointed canine crept into view and the fluttering in Sierra's gut rapidly transitioned into an entirely too familiar churning sensation; this one, she admitted only to herself, could never be mistaken as indigestion. She needed her head checked.
She ducked her head, turning to stare through the droopy Echinacea blooms in hopes of hiding her possibly impending flush. Sure, she was questioning her own sanity rather than the precise variety of Echinacea but the giant pointy-eared pain-in-her-ass didn't need to know that. Despite the thoughts running amuck in her flustered hormonal brain – or, perhaps because of them? – her nostrils flared, soaking in a calming and familiar scent from a half-formed memory. Spring water, ichor, rich soil, and greenery. The being beside her was clearly not from this planet, but underneath honest and undisguised sweat he smelled like her favorite parts of nature. 'Stop it,' she ordered her rioting hormones. 'No sniffin' the alien.'
"You're welcome." This being startled from her thoughts was becoming frustrating. She turned blank eyes to the set a head or so above hers…and froze. This, after all, was the first time she managed to pull more than a vague feeling from Piccolo. You know what I mean you stubborn woman, he grumbled at her from the privacy of his thoughts. Quit putting on as though you fed a whole pack of Saiyans for no reason and just say it. She blinked, breath stilled in her lungs. 'Thank you.' It's that simple. Just say it.
For the second time in a single day, someone saw right through Sierra's stifled reactions and blank mask, and she wasn't quite sure how to feel about that. She wasn't used to being understood, let alone being read with the ease of a light novel. Stranger still, Piccolo broke the eye contact first, a trace of deeper, warmer green quickly glancing across his high cheekbones. He…understood? He…he was being civil? She expected something else entirely – condescension and snide remarks if not complete dismissal – but the only sarcasm she heard was intentionally left unspoken.
Sierra glanced over the plate still gingerly balanced on one massive clawed hand and cataloged the remnants on it. Teriyaki and 'brown' sauce—traces of broccoli, carrot, roast corn, and rice—a few shreds of chicken and a barely touched yeast roll—no sign of any cheese, sour cream, beef, or cream sauce. Mentally she compared these to what she saw on Dende's plate before. Namekians, it seemed, were partial to fruits and vegetables, preferred lean meats over heavy, and they probably weren't crazy about pastries, dairy, or spicy dishes. Strange considering what she picked up from Dende before – "We don't eat, we just need water…so why am I hungry?" Of course, even the hardiest of plants needed fertilizing, and what was a living creature but a glorified houseplant with more complex emotions?
"You may find the sesame tofu, fried plantains, and roast onions to your liking," she suggested without emphasis. "They're sweet and savory rather than spicy." Piccolo shot her an incredulous glance, chin raised at her audacity; how could she resist? "They won't cure headaches but they taste better than your nasty tea."
Though his lips remained stiff, the savage grin from before reappeared in his dark eyes, and accompanying it was an even more uncivilized fluttering in her stomach. Such occurrences always led to ruin—they led Rio to ruin!—so why wasn't she afraid? Why wasn't she running? The flowerbed had no answer.
The party was over, the guests dispersed, and the army of borrowed bots scouring the kitchen. All in all, Bulma considered the party a success; perhaps, she wondered through a sip of hot tea, this tradition was one worth claiming for her own loved ones. Across the pond from her, Trunks' enigmatic Asian-American tutor slumped on the glider savoring her own tea. "Questions are more likely to be answered if they are first asked," Sierra pointed out without ever looking at her. Right…Bulma was still getting used to having a psychic living in her home, whatever that meant exactly. She shifted in place on the cushioned lounger.
"You're a talented cook," she said with a weak smile. "Were you trained, or are you self-taught?"
"Neither." Sierra gave an indifferent lopsided shrug. "That's not what you're wondering, though." She glanced over for permission, received a nod, then continued, "Your memory isn't mistaken—the dishes were the same."
"It didn't hit me before." Bulma carefully studied the other woman's blank expression in hopes of discerning her reaction. "Your last name is Stone…you prepared signature dishes from the House of Stones, and I highly doubt the owner would have willingly shared those recipes with someone they didn't trust."
Sierra sighed through her nose, eyes locked on the distant flower bed – or, rather, the tall purple Echinacea. Droopy daisies, her Auntie Constanza always called them, or Coneflowers. They grew wild in the grassy meadows of her home state – tall stalks capped with gracefully draping petals which fluttered and swayed in the breeze like dancers in flowing skirts. Here, in the Briefs' enclosed garden, those daisies would never dance; the artificial air circulation wasn't strong enough. "He wouldn't," she said finally, eyes never leaving the distant specks of color. "Stone Takahiro, the founder and owner of the House of Stones, was my father. After his death, the restaurant went to his second wife, Makoto."
His second wife…even roughly fourteen years later, Sierra still found it hard to call Makoto by her rightful title of "stepmother." Makoto was sweet and gentle, petite and pale, soft-spoken and polite to a fault—she was everything Sierra's mother Evita was not. The three daughters torn between the two marriages often wondered if those characteristics had any bearing on Takahiro's second marriage succeeding where the first failed. Sierra paused to collect her thoughts. This was all water under the bridge, Takahiro's infidelity and the subsequent divorce included, and it had no bearing on Bulma's question. "Dad," she attempted, faltered, then shifted to the name he'd preferred in life, "Tousan taught me everything he could, then left me his personal recipe box. He wanted me to take over when he retired but it didn't happen." Bulma shot her a curious glance and Sierra responded with a crooked cringe-smile. "I opened a flower shop instead."
Whatever happened to the botany shop? Why wouldn't Cordelia answer her calls? No matter how many times Sierra called, the youngest Stone sister refused to answer the phone. Perhaps it was time to try again. Even Cordelia Tomasa Stone couldn't shut her out forever; eventually Cor's compulsive need to blame everyone for everything would drive her to answer the phone if only to unleash holy Hell on Sierra for running away. ...not that she didn't deserve it.
"You've made progress." Bulma's remark received a vague nod in reply. "When Gohan found you, you could barely walk; tonight you prepared enough food to feed a small army."
"I'll pay for it, too," Sierra deadpanned. "Probably gonna be limping for a couple days while my muscles unclench." Then again, putting it like that made her sound ungrateful. "I could barely even cook for myself when this all started, though, so it's definitely an improvement. Don't see how I'll ever repay you."
The silence filling the garden now was a comfortable one—an opportunity for quiet reflection between two women fast becoming friends of a sort. Still, all silences are eventually broken and this one was no exception. "Have you contacted your family yet?" Sierra's lazy rocking stilled, eyes hardening. "They're sure to be worried about you," Bulma amended.

"Rio, you've got to be more careful. Rowan's depending on you, you can't just stop taking your med—"
"Don' you go tellin' me how to raise my kid! I know what I'm doin'!"
"Do you even hear yourself right now? You're—"
"Fuck off, Dai! When have you ever heard me?! Yer so fuckin' special— too fuckin' special to dirty yer hands with me or my problems! When've ya ever listened to me?!"
Sierra shuddered at the memory, all the while cursing herself for the involuntary reaction. Rio Stone needed constant, careful handling, and had needed it since her accident, but what of Sierra? Rio had a right to make her own decisions and voice her opinions but what of Sierra's right to feel hurt, her right to protect herself from…from what? After several years of similar (and much worse) fights—mild disagreements which rapidly escalated to one-sided screaming matches and thrown objects—Sierra still couldn't quite bring herself to name what she was trying to escape. Rio depended on her…toxic or not, how could Sierra let her down? How could she let Rio down, when Rio's condition was partly her fault?
"No," she answered at last, "not yet. This's the first time Rio's ever had to actually be a bleedin' grownup; considerin' the tantrum I saw yesterday she's still not gettin' it." Her fingers clenched painfully on the side of her tea mug and her breath caught in her throat. Hide it—conceal it—shove it so far down no one can read it! If you smother it, you'll still feel it, but no one can see! Hide it! But…why? She had allies now—people who might understand instead of blame her. Hiding, too, was part of what led to her intended but averted death in the autumn-clad forest; locking her emotions away from prying eyes led her to the gingko tree she chose as her headstone. If Piccolo and Gohan hadn't intervened, she might still be there, those busy ants cleaning her bones as the winter sun bleached them. Perhaps…
"Sometimes Vegeta takes off without much warning." Bulma's words came completely out of left field; Sierra's grip on the ceramic mug loosened and her eyes met the impossibly blue eyes of her hostess. "He may be gone a few days or a few weeks…once he was even gone an entire month." Bulma broke eye contact, staring into the murky green dregs of her tea. "I used to hate him for it," she confessed, "then I realized the connection."
"He hasn't acclimated to this world very well," Sierra realized aloud. "He leaves when the stress becomes too much?"
"Because he knows he'll take it out on us." Sierra's eyes widened then darted away, seeking yet again the tiny lavender blobs across the garden. "Don't get me wrong, he's a wonderful man—a prince among men," she added with a secretive smile, "but he's still Saiyan. His temper is something you never want to encounter and his fuse is short. When he leaves for training, it's not because he resents me or Trunks—he's fighting himself to protect us from the part of him we could never tame." Bulma fell silent, leaning into the lounger's tall back and settling in for a wait. If living with Vegeta taught her anything, it was to be patient when people wouldn't speak.
Sierra thought it over a moment, considering the pros and cons and the other woman's unintentionally broadcast internal commentary. Perhaps…it was worth the risk… "Vegeta leaves to protect you," she countered slowly and evenly. "If he didn't…if he refused to take responsibility for his…temper…" She sucked in a deep, measured breath through her nose and exhaled it through her teeth, her knuckles clenching anew. "If he…hurt you…would you…leave?"
"Vegeta has hurt me before," Bulma answered without a trace of humor, "but never on purpose, and he's always made up for it. Unintentional hurt I can forgive but intentional? That's something else entirely, something I'd never tolerate." The heiress waited for a response; Sierra brooded into her empty cup. "Hurting someone on purpose is abuse, Sierra."
There was that word—the word Sierra refused to acknowledge, and refused even more to connect with her family. "Rio has lessons to learn," she explained instead of confirming or denying Bulma's point. "She's gotta figure out why I left before I return…or…" Her knuckles crackled; she forcibly set aside the ceramic tea mug and carefully folded her hands in her lap. Words mean nothing. THAT word means nothing. Hide it—Smother it. "I'm…I'm not strong enough to go back," she whispered as if to herself, eyes shimmering. "Gotta leech out the poison first or it'll spread…" Coughing to clear her throat, Sierra steeled herself against her own feelings; with practiced ease, the invisible veil dropped down over her eyes, guarding the emotions inside from being seen from without.
This time, the air between the two women was uncomfortable—prickly with meaning Bulma didn't care to examine—and she didn't feel comfortable breaking it. They sat in silence a while longer, long enough for the garden's automated lights to begin dimming and the humidity to rise. As small electric luminaries and lanterns flared to life along the walkways and unseen crickets began an out-of-season symphony, Sierra stared off into the distance.
Even as darkness settled and the colors faded from sight, her sight never left the distant "Southern America" flowerbed—the brick-bordered patch full of flame-hued Lantana and unnaturally still Coneflowers. Lantana. Why was she so bothered by it? Normally invasive species didn't bother her so much, so why did this one bother her? Honestly, she was surprised the showy bush hadn't already taken over the—
Wait. Her breath caught in her throat. That was why it upset her. Lantana was beautiful but noxious – it poisoned the soil, choked out weaker plants, and spread like a pandemic wherever the berries were scattered. Members of the Echinacea family were simple in appearance but hardy and some species were valued medicinals. Beauty over simplicity—aggression over endurance—control over comfort.
When incompatible plants were pitted against one another, the end result was always the same: the more aggressive species would thrive and the other would fade away. One way or another, one of them had to go. Must it really be the same with people?
Up next: Dende needs a favor, Gohan is on the case, Sierra pulls a Goldilocks, Nick and Randy are bi disasters but good friends, and the past never stays in the past in Catalyst of a Looming Crisis.

Notes
The Briefs family has an indoor garden - I haven't noted this before, but this feature is directly based in the early-to-middle episodes of Dragon Ball. The garden first shows up when Bulma brings Goku to her parents' home. It's shown as a very large space with countless flowerbeds, grass lawn, several sizable trees, and many different species of 'strays' taken in by Doctor Briefs...including a couple dinosaurs. Since the garden has been around since Goku and Bulma's childhood we can assume improvements and expansions have been made over the years.
Dishes - Sierra was trained by a professional chef (her father) and holds claim to three nations/ethnicities: Asian from her father and Latin American/American from her mother. The different dishes noted reflect those three sides of her.
Living creatures are basically houseplants but with more complex emotions - I have no blippin' idea where this came from, I just see it EVERYWHERE.
Echinacea Purpurea/Coneflower - These are, as mentioned, all names for the same plant - Echinacea purpurea or more commonly Eastern purple coneflower. The plant is sometimes used in folk remedies and herbal medicine and often used for strengthening the immune system/treating cold and flu symptoms. Echinacea tea, in particular, is one of the more pleasant home remedies for symptoms caused by respiratory issues.
* Evanescence “Bring Me to Life”
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